


The Cost of Living

by Cherry (orchidlights)



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Established Relationship, F/F, Heavy Angst, Pregnant!Trixie, Trans Woman and Drag Queen!Katya, Unplanned Pregnancy, a smattering of violet/katya just to keep things fun n' flirty, almost everyone is a trans woman now that i think about it, and bob is a drag queen, lesbians au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-06-18 00:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 69,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15473658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidlights/pseuds/Cherry
Summary: Trixie and Katya are two down-on-their-luck but very in-love women, living in a grimy one-bedroom somewhere in Los Angeles, and taking all the punches life throws at them.  They're figuring it out, but things always get worse before they get better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This all came to me in a fever dream. Warnings for talk of poverty, abortion, dysphoria, transphobia, anxiety, a scene of attempted sexual assault, and the struggles of being a sex worker. I love babies/pregnancy fics and also wanted to give some love to trans woman!Katya, my angel.
> 
> Katya basically looks like this, if you want a reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXKIiOVXTBI
> 
> Now on with the show! ♡

The chili lights adorning the booths of Dos Bandidos are turning Katya’s hair Christmas colors.  Red, green, and white from the overhead hanging between them. Maybe if Katya didn’t dye her hair so violently bleach-blonde it wouldn’t shift like a chameleon and make her look like she blacked out at a festive office party gone wrong, but she doesn’t seem to notice.  She’s nudging the salt on the rim of her margarita with one of her bright red nails, filed to a point, with paint that’s just begun chipping off.

Trixie leans forward and rests her head against the table.  

She’s not going to throw up again.  She’s _not_ going to throw up again.

“Christ, you’re already going dead on me?”  Katya asks, nudging Trixie’s leg under the table.  She was wearing heels, but kicked them off onto the floor as soon as they sat down, and the fabric of her nylon feels cheap and scratchy.  “It’s ten. On a Friday.”

Trixie’s been feeling sick on and off for a week.  It started out when she’d puked in the break room at work during a morning shift - _oh yeah, that really made the suburban mom who’s hair she was cutting tip well—_ and then spent the rest of the day dizzy.  Between rushing on foot to work every day and trying to keep up with the ever-effervescent yet equally stressed batch of misfits they call friends, it's the last thing she needs.  A strange and unidentifiable feeling that she won't see a doctor for, because who has time for healthcare? 

Besides, she's pretty sure it's something going around.  Two weekends before, they’d left one of Bob’s shows downtown and there were more people doubled over outside the club than usual, enough to have her wondering if it was a summer flu, instead of just the usual went-too-hard college girls coughing up their dinner.

“Katya, I feel like shit.”  Trixie whines.

Her voice is muffled against the table.

The sad part is, this is date night.  This is their big hurrah for the week, because whatever money they make goes into rent, and then the rest goes into food, and then—if they’re lucky, or if they pulled any doubles—they have 80 dollars left for a nice meal and a round of barely-drunk clubbing. 

“Since when?”  Katya asks. There’s a softness to her voice.  She reaches over the table and ruffles the top of Trixie’s hair.  “You were fine at home.”

Trixie  _was_ fine at home.  And yesterday, and three days before that, so she’s not sure why suddenly the thought of stuffing a chile relleno in her mouth makes her want to heave.  Even glancing at the neighboring tables, plates piled high and overflowing, makes her palms begin to sweat.  The guilt goes double, too, because the amount of times they can afford to eat out within a month has been shrinking ever since their landlord raised the rent and acted like it wasn’t even his fault.   _It’s all about gentrification, ladies.  I’m hurting more than you are._

“I can ask them to just bring it in a box.”

Trixie groans again, and lifts her head up to look at Katya.  She’s fucking beautiful, even put on her fake lashes that she hardly bothers with anymore, and it makes Trixie inclined to just dip down to 7-11, buy some Tums, and wing it for the rest of the night.  Katya deserves that at least.  A date who isn't grinding her forehead onto the table, sticky with the remnants of spilled Coronas.  But she knows that’s a piece of shit idea. She can’t go getting for-real sick, because that would mean taking time off work, and that’s not an option.

“Would you mind?”  She asks, and slides her hand forward to wrap around Katya’s,  “We can do dinner in bed, I’ll let you pick the movie.”

That’s a dangerous game. Katya likes a total of _two_ movies that Trixie has seen way too many times, but it brings a grin to Katya’s face. _What a relief._  

In the back of her head, Trixie’s always worried that she’s somehow, unbeknownst to herself, holding Katya back.  It’s cheaper for them to split a room, and it’s easier for them to live life together, but still, she wonders if Katya was still her old free-wheeling self, if she would’ve found a better situation by now.  Better than being a domesticated paycheck-to-paycheck lesbian by day and a low-budget showgirl by night, and only once a month.  They aren't drowning, but they also aren't really headed anywhere.  Just biding their time playing a little game of life one square at a time.  

“Oh, you had me at bed.  And then you had me a second time at picking the movie, I’ve been getting Jodie Foster withdrawals.”  

Katya lets go of Trixie’s hand and grabs her margarita, tipping it back and drinking the entire thing in one long continuous gulp.  She doesn’t take a break to breathe, and finally sighs as she sets the glass back down on the table with a clink.  Some old woman in an adjacent booth raises her eyebrows.

Trixie wishes alcohol could help her right now.

“You know there’s a bunch of good movies that you _haven’t_ seen, right?”

“Trixie, I’m serious.  I’m shaking, look at me.”  Katya holds out her hand, dramatically waving it back and forth like she’s frail.  “I need to look at her supple body at least once a week or I’ll fucking lose it.”

Katya wipes a few grains of salt off the corner of her mouth.  Trixie hopes she’s talking about Silence of The Lambs; that would be a pleasant surprise.  If it’s Contact she figures she can just fall asleep on Katya’s shoulder and claim unconsciousness.  That's what she'd done last time, even though Katya kept poking her on the shoulder and trying to give her Mystery Science Theater style commentary on the deeper implications of intra-dimensional communiqué.

A particularly bored waiter passes by a few tables away from them.  Katya smiles, reaches her hand into the air, snaps.  Anyone else doing it might seem rude, but Katya kind of has this air about her, like its best not to question any of her decisions, or as she fondly calls them, artistic lifestyle choices.  

“ _Garçon!  Ici, š'il vous plaît!_ ”  

It rolls of her tongue, past those perfect teeth, and Trixie mumbles an extremely quiet ‘ _It's a Mexican restaurant’_ , but nobody hears her.

 

~

 

When Trixie thinks about their lives as a whole—the big picture—it’s actually kind of nice.  Their apartment is a sweet six block jaunt from both of their places of work. Katya, with her odds-and-ends costume shop run by a reclusive queen in his 80s, and Trixie, who works at the least glamorous hair salon this side of sunny West Hollywood.  It’s technically a one bedroom, but the one bedroom was so small Trixie let Katya turn it into a studio space, and they set their bed up in the living room. In exchange for Katya commandeering the ‘bedroom’, Trixie has a whole corner to herself with a giant pink chair, plush carpet, a few houseplants, a record player, and the only item of value she actually owns, her guitar.  

Not that she’s picked it up in a hot second.  

There had been this fantasy in the back of her mind that after moving to L.A. she would be magically discovered, and thinking back, it’s super embarrassing.   _What is this, a fucking Disney movie?_  She hasn’t even really given it a fair shot. Immediately after moving she was swept up in just staying afloat, and it became obvious that chasing dreams was a luxury few could afford. Nevertheless she likes to play for herself, and Katya if she's around, on random weeknights when she has nothing better to do.

They’re both such a far cry from the people they were before they met.  

Most of all is Katya, who had been kind of an unstoppable force to the immovable object that is life.  Trixie was surprised that, when they first met, Katya even had any interest in hooking up with her.  In hitting pause on her regular routines; the green room crawls and the nights spent on other people's floors, straggling into work the day after with big dark sunglasses and a smile on her face.  And of course, Trixie wasn't the only person Katya had been hooking up with at the time, but there was Trixie, quite literally fresh out of the Midwest, never been to a real club in her life, front-row and starstruck as Katya wiggled herself across the filthy stage and licked money out of the hands of bar rats.

“Do you ever miss it?”  Trixie had asked her, once, about two years after they’d begun officially dating.

“Miss what?”  

Katya was doing her makeup at the time, heavy handed on the eyeshadow and glitter before a show.  It was a lot of effort, especially when Trixie had always preferred Katya slightly done-down. It was easier to kiss her when she didn’t smother her mouth with gooey two-dollar nightmare lipstick.

“Fucking whoever you want, whenever you want.”

Katya’s hand had gone still on her eyeshadow palette that was messed up six ways to Sunday, and almost entirely black.

“I do fuck who I want.”  Katya said after a moment, the brush starting up again, it’s little circles over her eyelid.  “And whenever I want, unless you fall asleep on me, you whore.”

So maybe the nerves were only in Trixie’s head.  

Maybe Katya was happy as a fucking clam with the life they’d managed to scrape together.  It’s not like she’d stopped performing, or clubbing, or drinking, making any of the weird abstract art pieces she still likes to obsess over to the point of neurosis.

It’s not like they’re exactly monogamous either.  

Bathroom quickies were off the table just to put Trixie’s hypochondriac mind at ease, but Trixie knows that Katya still fucks Violet every once in a blue moon.  Who wouldn't, given the chance?  Violet had even fucked them both, one fateful night after a back-alley art gallery opening, even though her and Trixie had never quite gotten along, and Violet insisted Trixie be gagged the whole time. (Ah, memories)

The thing is, it doesn’t really matter to Trixie what they have or don’t have, because she’s in love.  Been that way maybe since the first time she saw Katya absolutely grinding her pussy onto the grimy club floor while people waved bills at her face, ever since she’d gushed to Bob in disbelief post-show‘ _now that’s a woman_ ’, and all he’d said was ‘ _No, seriously, she is_ ’.

They’re the disgusting type of in love.  Kisses in the morning and visiting each other at work type of in love.  

Apparently, also, the ‘eating take-out while watching Panic Room in bed with the windows open because date night went south’ type of in love.

The infamous chile relleno that Trixie was sure she wouldn’t be able to keep down had, surprisingly enough, started sounding appetizing once they crawled into bed.  She’s curled up in one of her oversized pink shirts, underwear peeking out underneath the hem, and snuggled under Katya’s arm with the styrofoam container in her lap.  When they’d first met each other, Katya pretty much exclusively wore panties in bed, but later on had confessed that she preferred boxers. Trixie said she didn’t see a reason why Katya shouldn’t wear boxers in her own fucking apartment, so next to her, Katya’s wearing just that.  Boxers, and a tank top that barely covers her tits.

“I thought you were sickly.”  Katya nudges her shoulder.

Trixie’s been practically shoveling food into her mouth and licking the oil off her fingers.  It’s kind of gross; she wouldn’t do it around anyone else.

“I changed mind.” 

On screen, Jodie foster is touring her soon-to-be apartment with her hair slicked down, reading glasses, and a bland probably-one-hundred-percent-pure-wool suit.  The movie is kind of hard to hear with the window open, all the bustling sounds of the city thrumming outside; tire squeals and little curbside arguments. Their blocks are lively ones, but they’re too cheap to afford air conditioning, so instead they leave the windows open after the sun goes down, and let Mother Nature do her thing.  

“I would fuck the shit out of her in that - that lesbian accountant fantasy she has going on.”  

“You’d fuck the shit out of her if she was in a clown suit.” Trixie mumbles around a mouthful of food.  

“Especially.”  Katya adds, “ _Especially_ if she was in a clown suit. Wait, isn't there a word for that? It sounds like Cauliflower.”

Trixie finishes her food in record time, and eventually, Katya falls asleep with the DVD still rolling.  

The sounds of a single mother and her daughter desperately struggling to stay alive apparently function like a white noise machine for her.  It’s less of a surprise knowing that she has night terrors, so Trixie turns off the DVD, throws away the take-out containers, and flicks off their lights on her own.

It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark.  

She shuffles back to the bed with her hands outstretched and lays herself down in the empty space on their bed.

Katya is still propped upright, chin resting on her chest, breathing quietly.  It’s a shame to disturb, but Trixie wakes her up with a small kiss to her temple.

“Babe, you gotta’ get under the covers.”  She whispers.

Katya whines in the back of her throat, but complacently tucks her legs up underneath herself and slips under their worn and vaguely-stained sheets. Even in her half-asleep state, Trixie feels Katya reach for her, pull her closer, till their noses bump together.  Trixie opens her mouth and lets Katya kiss her slowly, lazily, even half-assed.

It’s peaceful, even as she can hear sirens start up outside their window.

 

~

 

“Have you seen my cowgirl boots?”  Trixie calls out, her voice muffled by the toothbrush between her lips.

It’s a fast morning, like all of their mornings.  For some reason only Katya has the innate ability to spring up at sunrise and greet the day, every day, with a smile on her face.  Usually Trixie will find Katya in a headstand on her yoga mat while she herself stumbles out of bed and to the bathroom, and probably bumps into a wall on the way.  It's annoying.  One time Trixie had even, hungover and angry, had seen her in downward dog and mumbled _why can't you just be shitty like the rest of us_ before slamming the bathroom door and crawling into the shower to try and rinse away her headache.  But honestly, isn't that just a regular Monday?

“You left them in the studio.”  Katya calls back.

She’s in the kitchen finishing up a pot of coffee.  

 _Right, in the studio._  Katya had been hot gluing one of the little rhinestones back into place after it fell off, and then Trixie had just forgot about them.

She spits toothpaste out in the sink and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Feeling a little bit country today?”  Katya’s voice comes from the doorway now, and Trixie spins around to see her leaning with a mug in her hand.

“Well I’m definitely not feeling a little bit rock n’ roll.”  

Katya’s already dressed for work, meaning she’s dressed in her usual shit.  A button-up black dress that goes down to her mid-calf, these wicked heeled boots with little blue eyes on the tips of them, more jewelry on her neck and wrists than Trixie thinks she should reasonably be able to keep track of.

Her hair is brushed out around her shoulders, and pretty soon, she’ll probably be asking Trixie to touch up the places where the light-brown roots have grown in.

Katya raises her mug to take a sip of coffee, and Trixie holds up a finger.

“Wait.”  She crosses the tiny space of their bathroom, standing in the doorway with Katya, who’s only taller because she’s wearing shoes.  They’re usually eye-to-eye, if not Trixie generally being the one looking down. “At least kiss me before you start drinking that shit.”

A smile spreads over Katya’s face.  She reaches out to set the mug of coffee on one of the bathroom shelves, and then leans forward, pressing their lips together until Trixie is backed up against the doorframe.  The bathroom tiles are cold underneath her bare feet.  Both their mouths are still minty from the morning, and Trixie takes it upon herself to part her lips, get Katya’s tongue between her teeth, and bite down gently.

Katya hums against her as they break apart.  

“Feelin’ a little bit … you know…” Katya wiggles her eyebrows, and Trixie winds her hand in the small collar of Katya’s dress.

“Garbage?”  She asks.

“Yeah, but smokin’ hot garbage.  I’d dive into that dumpster any day, mama.”  Katya leans in again, sucking Trixie’s upper lip into her mouth. Their tongues slide together like they’re a couple of high school sweethearts making out under the bleachers before class.  

Katya’s hands move up Trixie’s stomach, under the baggy t-shirt she’s still sporting.  Most people Trixie’s fucked have been obsessed with her tits, and Katya’s no exception, not by a long shot.  Katya’s thumbs brush over her nipples, as the familiar droning beep of a garbage truck pulls up somewhere below their window, and she squeezes, hard. 

Normally Trixie would be making soft little gasps, all demure and showboat-y, but for some reason, this morning, Katya’s hands on her tits _really_ fucking hurt.

“Ow, Jesus.”  She breaks away from the kiss quickly, the soreness permeating her chest even after Katya lets go, dull and throbbing.

“What’s up?”  

Katya looks confused.  

“Just hurts.”  Trixie bats Katya’s hands out from under her shirt and smooths down the fabric, “I’m probably starting my period soon or something, it’s fine.  I should get ready for work.”

Katya sighs heavily, dramatically, and reaches for her cup of coffee again.

“Dirty little tease.”  Katya mumbles, although clearly joking.  Trixie reaches forward, and just for good measure, pinches Katya on the nipple through the thin fabric of her dress.  It makes her hiss, and Trixie laughs to herself.

“See?  Not that great.”

“But that’s not what I did to you!”  Katya complains, laughing with her now, watching as Trixie trudges out of the bathroom towards their shallow closet.

The cowgirl boots end up pairing well with one of the fullskirt dresses Trixie owns.  There’s no reason to dress up for her job, but she dresses up anyways, in the hopes that maybe one of the glamorous salons on the walk over will spot her through the window and drop to their knees, begging to employ her, and tripping over their own dollar bills.

 

~

 

“I just don’t think it’s possible.”

It’s a Wednesday, Trixie’s least favorite fucking day.  Far from the weekend, and far from the weird surge of motivation she gets on Mondays when she thinks _yes, I can do this, I can get through the week_.  Kim knows Wednesdays are her least-favorite, and that’s why they always go out for two-dollar happy hour beers after each of their shifts respectively end.  Trixie loved dive-bars even in Wisconsin, and still kind of does. The peanuts on the ground and the day-drinkers complaining about their life; it’s all part of the ambiance.

“Why not?”  Kim asks.

She’s drinking her beer with a straw so not to smudge her matte lipstick, a light shade of purple that matches the highlights in her hair.  Kim’s job isn’t _great_ , but she’s doing better than Trixie; assistant manager at some startup Instagram-famous makeup store.  It shows, too. Every time she leaves the house she’s beat to hell, and gorgeous, which mostly makes up for her clumsiness and her adorable lisp.

“Because it’s just not possible.  She’s, you know…” Trixie watches the little foam bubbles burst in her own beer.  She doesn’t even fucking like beer, just likes an excuse to sit with Kim and relax somewhere nobody will bother them.  “...firing blanks.”

It was a conversation they’d had when they got together, after using condoms for a couple months.  Katya even went to the trouble—just to quell Trixie’s overactive imagination—of asking her doctor to give her a fertility test, which confirmed that no, there weren’t any little swimmers somehow straggling through her second puberty.

“That’s a for sure thing?”  Kim asks again.

Trixie doesn’t want to be talking about this.  It’s a useless conversation.

“Yeah.  She’s been taking estrogen since she was like eighteen.  Even if she stopped taking it, she wouldn’t be able to have kids.”  Trixie takes a sip of her drink, and as she does, Kim gives her a little eyebrow raise.  It makes Trixie sigh under her breath. “Do _not_ give me that look.”

“I’m just saying, wouldn’t it be better to know for sure?”  Kim reaches out one of her sharp manicured hands and rests it gently on the rim of Trixie’s glass.  “I have some tests at my house.”

“Does it test for a stomach bug?  Because that’s what I had.” She has this sickening feeling in the back of her mind that Kim is right, she should get to the bottom of it, but that doesn’t mean she has to listen. “I just want to finish my drink, Kim.  Please.”

She’s so solid in her conviction that pregnancy is the last thing she needs to worry about.

It’s a wonder, then, how she ends up back at Kim’s apartment sitting on her toilet while Kim reapplies her eyebrow liner in the mirror.  

Music is flooding out of Kim’s little bluetooth speaker, quietly, some K-pop remix that Trixie’s so sure she’s heard before.  It’s nice of her to set the mood for such a special occasion. Trixie taps the pregnancy test off on the edge of the seat and sets it up on the white tile counter, taking note of the time, but then Kim reaches into the little cardboard box and hands her a second.

“You should do two, just in case.”

Trixie sighs, deflated.

“You know I don’t have infinite pee, right?  I’m a real human person?”

“Just try.”  Kim insists.  She coats one of her oversized makeup brushes in a thick powder, and dusts it over her forehead, cheeks, chin - anything to beat that summer heat and the sweat that’s been rampantly breaking out on her face.  “I’m being helpful.”

Trixie rolls her eyes, but snatches the test out of her hand anyways.

“Fine, but I get to pick the next song, and it’s gonna be Dolly.”

There’s no tremble in her voice.  No wavering, no cracking. Nothing to let on even a small percentage of how fucking nervous she feels, as she glances up at the clock, indicating that she has three more minutes and counting until she gets an answer.  The nerves seemed to come out of nowhere, too.  Once second she was confident that Kim was being her usual overthinking and compassionate self, and the next, she was walking up the steps to Kim's apartment complex struggling not freak out and ring Katya.  Her rational mind keeps stepping in before that happens.  Telling her that she's not the first gal to become paranoid over a small flu and a pair of sore tits, freak out, and ask the daunting age-old question: could it be a baby?  Not the first, and not the last.

“What Dolly?”  Kim asks, as her thick nails tap against her phone screen.

“Anything off Little Sparrow.” 

Trixie sets the second test down next to the first, finally stands up, and pulls her underwear over her hips.  She doesn’t rush to try look at them, because she already knows they’re negative. This whole endeavor is more for Kim, at this point, than anyone else.  

Still, as the first notes of the song begin to play, she taps her foot and sings along to keep herself distracted, tuning in to the buzzing of Kim's overhead light and the static crackling beneath the melodic guitar notes.

_I get no kick from champagne, mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all._

_So tell me, why should it be true?_ _That I get a kick out of you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen the death proof lap dance scene go watch it on youtube rn before you read this. 
> 
> I'm honestly not....one hundred percent pleased with how this chapter came out but I guess I'm still getting to the goods, so it's what we've got! Can't express how much your guys' interest means. Honestly.

The apartment underneath them belongs to a Korean family.  That detail that has kept Trixie up many different nights listening to Kim complain about feeling homesick whenever dinner time rolls around, and the smells of fresh cooking weep up through the floorboards, samgyeopsal or seolleongtang.  Even a roast turkey, if it’s the holidays. Right now it just smells like they’re cleaning. A weird chemical scent is in the air that makes Trixie want to breathe through her mouth, or open a window. Opening a window would be bound to make it worse, though, seeing as outside is just an alleyway filled with needle-ditch dumpsters that reek of worse things than Clorox.

“I don’t understand what the fuck this means.”

There’s two pregnancy tests sitting in front of her.  One has a plus, the other one has a minus.

She’s been staring at them for what feels like an hour, but in reality it’s only been about a minute and a half, while Little Sparrow spins on mockingly.  Kim’s energy isn’t helping her either. She’s off to the side with her eyes bugging out, biting at the tips of her nails, as if she’s the one who needs to be anxious right now.  As if there’s a fifty percent chance that she’s the one who… _Jesus, this can’t be happening._

It feels like a twisted red pill blue pill moment.  Maybe if she just picks up the negative one she won’t have to worry about it.  Ignorance being bliss, and all that.

“No, really, do you understand what this means?  I feel like I’m fucking losing it.” Trixie turns to Kim, now demanding an answer instead of just complaining.  She rarely snaps, but if there was a moment to snap, this one seems particularly brittle and very fucking snap-able.

“I don’t know.”  Kim complains, frowning at the two of them, daunting on the counter.  “Maybe one of them is defective.”

“Yeah, no _shit_ , but which one?”

It’s not that she’s angry at Kim.  She’s angry that just when she felt like she was really getting into the rhythm of life ( _paying rent, going out, coming home, fucking, going to sleep, rinse and repeat_ ) suddenly a new problem has crept up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.  She toys with the idea of taking a third test as a tiebreaker, but she’s kind of lost all her faith in this particular box.  Another one would just make her double paranoid. There’s an Urgent Care a ten minute walk from her own apartment, consistently overrun with addicts on the comedown and people with minor stab wounds that should really be taken to the ER, and despite their shortcomings, she imagines they’ll have a little more accuracy.

_Fuck this._

“I guess it’s a fifty-fifty chance right now." Trixie says, forcing a little smile into her face, "I like those odds.”

Attitude is everything.  Attitude is what’s gotten her this far, and she’s not stopping now.  

She considers calling Katya.  They don’t keep a lot from each other, not unless they truly have to, but if the doctors end up telling her it’s negative, she would’ve created so much anxiety for nothing.  No, no reason to cause undue grief like that.  She'll swallowing the stress and take care of it the good old fashioned way; alone.

She looks up at Kim.

“I need you to drop me off somewhere.”  

 

~

 

The clinic makes her feel like she’s getting worse just being inside it.  Groaning overhead fluorescent lights and potentially blood-stained carpet (or maybe someone just dropped their coffee), a few screaming babies in the waiting room that God just decided to shove in her face for kicks - it has her on edge the whole time she’s checking in.  The receptionist asks her all kinds of questions that she has trouble answering, like when her last period was, and what forms of contraception she uses.

Oh, that really gets her an eyebrow raise from the old bitch, but she’s not about to go pretending she has a boyfriend just for the comfort of some hag who works at the front desk of the shittiest clinic in California.

It costs forty-nine dollars.  

Goodbye to her fantasy of trying date night round two next Friday.

They take her into the back after twenty painstaking minutes to perform the blood test.  Truth be told, Trixie sucks with needles. Other offices might’ve offered her a fucking granola bar, but the nurse just pokes her in a vein and looks at the clock as Trixie winces.  They take what feels like way too much blood, three vials— _isn’t one enough_?—and that’s how they leave her.  Sitting in a chair light-headed and on the verge of collapse, inside one of those little medical rooms that make you feel like you’re being slowly smothered by shrink-wrapped plastic objects and hand sanitizer; no wonder people do things like try and give themselves stitches with floss and a sewing needle. This place is _awful._

Just when she thinks she’s about to go nuts waiting for something to happen, the door opens.

“Are you Beatrice?”

He asks, with the tone of _‘am I in the right room?’_

“That’s me.”  

She watches his stubby little fingers flip over a page in his clipboard.  He’s a short dude, kind of greasy with sweat seeing as the clinic’s air conditioning is severely lacking, and he has to wear a medical coat over a cheap suit.  As he tosses the clipboard down onto the counter, he grabs a paper towel off the dispenser, folds it in half, and dabs at his forehead. It comes off looking like he dipped it in a frying pan of bacon.

“So you’re definitely pregnant.”  

_Oh._

_Cool._

_Fuckin’ cool._

Clinics like these aren’t the kind of places you go to have a happy family.  They're where you go to get the low-down on just how fucked you are.  His tone is immediately apologetic, even before Trixie’s heart sinks into her goddamn shoes and she sucks in an anxious little breath.  The doctor tosses the paper towel in the trash and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Not really in the market for a rugrat right now?”

Trixie struggles just to answer.

“Not really.”

Her mouth is dry.  She’s trying not to delve too deep into the different possible outcomes, because it makes her feel dizzy, like she might throw up again, as she’s already done so many fucking times in the past month, and _God, how could she have been so stupid._

“Well, there’s options depending on how far along you are.”  The doctor says, “Do you know who the father is?”

Trixie blanches at the word.  

It’s a pretty normal question to ask, but it makes her want to bolt.  Leave it to the medical system to be assholes without even realizing it.

Katya’s been lucky enough to find an office that specializes in all things gay and gender-y, so they’ve never had to deal with the overly invasive questions.  Her fucking primary physician is in the same boat as Katya, for God’s sake. Doctor Moore, who Trixie had met a total of one time while she was driving Katya home from a scheduled checkup.  Her first name was Peppermint, probably the only Peppermint in the world who ended up a doctor, but she had come off as smart, capable, beautiful, understanding.

Pretty much everything that the guy in front of Trixie isn’t.

“Well, do _you_ know how far along it is?”  She asks in return.

“No, you have to get either an exam or an ultrasound for that, but if you want you can schedule one at the front desk on your way out.”  

The thought of this absolute rat of a man sticking anything in her pussy is the absolute last straw. _Can’t deal, tapping out, thanks very much._  She slings her bag over her shoulder.  

“Yeah, sounds good.”

It sounds awful.  

She leaves the room quickly without saying goodbye, or waiting for him to give her some other kind of pertinent information, not that he would even have any in the first place aside from _‘yeah, you’re definitely fucked’_.  

She doesn’t stop walking until she’s a block away from the clinic.  

The sun beats down against the back of her neck. It’s making her sweat under the thin fabric of her dress.  The corner she’s standing on is home to a recycled phone parts dealer, and a convenience store with one window poorly boarded up over a gunshot crack that permeated through the glass like it was ice, and only then does she actually let out the breath she’s been holding, and sink down to sit on the curb, next to the gutter.  Slumped over like an idiot.  Reeling.  Dazed, and absolutely fucking terrified.

 

~

 

Katya isn’t home when Trixie reaches their apartment.  It’s pretty normal; they move independently of each other much of the time, and Trixie doesn’t expect Katya to shoot her a text if she’s meeting up with someone after work, just have a good time and all that.  

It’s uncomfortably quiet.  The only real sound is their useless kitchen clock ticking, about forty-five minutes off from the correct time, and the buzz of the refrigerator.  Trixie drops her handbag onto the floor. It makes a huge smacking sound, but she doesn’t give a shit about anything inside, just keeps walking through the kitchen and into their living room-slash-bedroom, where she slowly sits down on the edge of the bed.

_Fuck._

_Just, honestly, fuck._

She knows she has like seven missed texts from Kim saying different variations of _‘how’s it going’_ and _‘call me when you’re out’_ , but she literally just fucking _can’t_ right now.  It’s all she can do to keep herself from bursting into tears, but she’s wearing her eighteen dollar mascara today, so she’s trying to breathe through it.

In her head, she comes up with a few steps that she needs to follow before she panics.  

Step one is obviously to tell Katya.  

That’s the hardest step.

Step two is to find out how much an abortion costs.  She really has no idea, although she assumes it’s at least a few hundred dollars, since it’s not like minor surgeries just grow on trees.  And step three is to visit a doctor ( _no, not a doctor, Katya’s doctor)_ and find out just how many months she’s had an entire human being growing inside of her, all while she’s been going to bars, eating like shit, and living her goddamn life.

There’s a step missing in amongst those, and that step is to actually make the money for the abortion.  That’s what she tries _especially_ hard not to think about.  Everyone gets the money that they need, she tells herself, and this will be no different.  

Before she can even get up the courage to try and call anyone, she hears her phone buzzing in the kitchen.  

It’s low and droning against the tiles. She gets up from the bed slowly and shuffles over to where she’d left her purse, kneeling, pulling out her phone.  Katya’s name is on the screen.  She exhales slowly.  It’s fine, all she has to do is act natural, and keep it short.

Her knees begin to turn white against the cold floor as she hits receive.

“Bitch you will never fucking _believe_ the shit I just found out, oh my God.”

Okay, so maybe she won’t bring it up right away.

“What’s up?”  Trixie asks.

If Katya notices how tired she sounds, she doesn’t say anything.

“Violet fucking Chachki is getting _married_.”

Trixie blinks a few times.  

In fact, that might be bigger news than whatever Trixie has to tell her.

“Shut up.”

“No, I’m dead serious, she’s getting married.”  Katya’s clearly with people in the background, talking amongst themselves.  She sounds so fucking happy. Meanwhile, Trixie’s brain is just trying to turn the gears enough to generate a reaction.

“What, to that - to the milf who she always does work on?”  Trixie asks.

“She’s not a milf, she’s like 30, but yeah.”

Violet’s story is an interesting one.  Katya knows more of the nitty gritty details of her life than Trixie does.  All Trixie’s really been told is that she started with nothing and worked her way up as a dominatrix, gagging and flogging the most lucrative clients within the 90210 zip code.  That’s how she gained enough financial and social capital to be one of the founders of Parts. Although they spell it with all capital letters, and a V instead of an a, so it’s actually PVRTS.  Very avant-garde for a plastic surgeons office, marketed as an upscale body modification salon, but Trixie can’t begrudge them in the slightest. After all, Violet was the one who managed to get Katya a pair of under-the-table breast implants for the whopping price of zero dollars.  Zero dollars and a whole lot of ass-kissing, literally, from Katya. Trixie remembers how she’d been ecstatic, going from an A-cup to a generous B. Katya had even asked if they could just take the fat out of Trixie’s tits since she had enough for the both of them.

There’s not a lot that Violet does that surprises Trixie.  

Except, now, this.

“I don’t know how this went over my head, but the party she’s throwing tonight is their fucking happy-engagement soirée.”  Katya continues, “You’re still coming with me, right?”

Trixie forgot all about it.

“Yeah, totally, what - what time is it?”

“Starts at nine, but she asked me to get there early.  Probably wants to squeeze in one last filthy fuck before she’s got a ball and chain, not that I can really blame her.”  Trixie can tell she’s joking. Barely. Over the receiver, Katya turns her head and mumbles something to someone else. Then, “Can you just meet me there?”

Everything Trixie needs to say ( _no, you need to come home now, and we need to talk_ ) dies in the back of her throat.

“Yeah, but if you fuck Violet, just don’t let her put cigarettes out on you.  They’re really gross to look at afterwards.”

“You’re impossible, and that was _one_ time.”  Katya whines.

One weird, violent, gross time.

“Okay, _bye,_ I love you.”  Trixie says insistently.

Katya rushes a goodbye, an I love you, and hangs up halfway through her laughing out _get the fuck off me, bitch_ to someone on her end of the line.  

And just like that, the kitchen is quiet again.

 

~

 

Violet’s ever-present flare for drama is full-fledged and rampant tonight.  A Wednesday night - _who parties on a Wednesday?_ \- because apparently weekends are just too expected.  Trixie’s been to a few of her functions before. She keeps going because of the free booze and the fact that she gets to be Katya’s arm candy, and everyone looks at her like she’s on display, which, as a Leo, is at the very least pleasing.  Last time she’d dared to enter _la maison de Violet_ she ended up doing a tequila shot out of Katya’s belly button, and woke up the next morning missing her favorite pair of panties.

She’s made the decision to not think about her visit to the clinic.

If she thought about it too hard, she would’ve avoided putting effort into her appearance, but put in effort she sure as hell did.  She’s wearing one of her form-fitting cocktail dresses that has her all nervous if she’s gained any weight or not, even though she hasn’t, not if it’s only been a month or something.  The dress zipped up fine. She paired it with kitten heels and an updo. It’s all pink, because of course it’s all fucking pink.

She knows she looks good, but she also knows she looks like shit compared to all the beautiful people who usually show up to Violet’s place.  Disgraced debutantes and indie latex designers and C-list actresses. There’s just no winning that game.

Violet’s front door is black.  

On the other side of the door, a deep bassline has the floorboards vibrating softly under Trixie’s shoes.  This is a better part of town than she’s used to walking, so there hadn’t been any trash in the stairwell, nor any fights brewing in the street outside.  It's a big breath of fresh air, actually, as she turns the handle—steps through that high-hanging doorway—into the sprawling little lair Violet actually calls home.

It’s _very_ well attended.  

Just a few people short of crowded, actually.  Trixie glances around the room, a wide-open loft with sparse furniture and sturdy beams on the ceiling that Violet uses to hang silks, or sex swings, depending on the mood and goal of the evening.  The silver kitchen island is piled high with a champagne pyramid and teeny tiny hors d'oeuvres.  Trixie watches as a woman in a bright yellow catsuit stabs a strawberry with a sharp, sharp, fingernail and bites down on it aggressively.  It's a wonder how many of them truly know Violet, or just got an invite because they're "trendy", or something like that.

Then, finally, Trixie spots Katya.  

She’s all the way across the room, sitting on a loveseat shaped like a massive pair of red lips.  Just to the left of Violet.  Joint smoldering between her fingers.  Her dress is bright squeaky red (more latex, _super_ original) but it hugs her hourglass perfectly, and wraps around her throat in a high neckline.  Where Trixie expected relief upon seeing her, she actually feels worse. A new kind of panic overcoming her body, after realizing that she has to be the one to break the news, and watch it wash over Katya’s face, and force her to deal with this new breed of unpleasantry.  She doesn’t want that to happen, not when Katya looks so relaxed. So in her element.

There’s a tap on her shoulder.

“I’ve been texting you all fucking night…”  

Trixie spins around.

“...and I don’t get _one_ word?”  

Kim’s too cute to look pissed.  Even when she frowns, Trixie just wants to pinch her cheeks.

_Of course she was invited._

“My bad.”  Trixie sighs and glances over her shoulder, to make sure Katya’s still caught up in her conversation, before continuing.  “I’ve just been - I totally spaced out, I’m impressed I’m even here.”

Kim looks like she wants to berate her a little more for good measure, but there’s an understanding behind her heavily winged eyes.  An understanding that if Trixie had good news, she would’ve texted back, and if she had bad news, she would’ve kept it to herself.

“Have you told her?”

Kim’s got a drink in her hand.  Trixie really fucking wants to grab one too, but for some reason the thought of drinking on a full stomach ( _hah - get it?_ ) makes her feel awkward.  Even if she plans to get rid of it.  Even if she’s solid as a fucking brick house in that plan, it just seems wrong.

“No, I haven’t, so please let’s just act normal and fun, okay?”  Trixie asks, plastering a cheesy smile on her own face for just a moment.

It’s enough to wipe _half_ the frown off Kim’s face.

“Okay.”  Kim nods.  She takes a sip of her drink.  “Are you okay though?”

The music choice at the party is weird.  It’s like old jazz with a club beat. Undeniably Violet, and very hard to dance to, but still sultry enough to get everyone in the mood to do weird stuff.  Trixie mulls Kim’s question over in her mind and decides that the answer is no, she’s not okay. Nothing about the situation is okay.

“I will be.”  She reaches out then, grabs onto Kim’s hand and gives it a little squeeze.  Her nails are sharp against Trixie’s slightly sweaty palm, but there’s comfort in her tiny bedazzled claws.  The comfort of her friend, the only person in the room—no, in the world—right now who actually understands the type of stress she’s under.  “Thank you. I seriously love you.”

“I love you too, always.”  Kim says back. Trixie wonders if, to everyone else, they look like a classic pair of drunk girls who just met having a heart-to-heart about the intricacies of life.

Probably.   _Hopefully._

“I’m gonna go see Kat, but find me later.”

After making sure Kim’s found her way to the kitchenette to refill her glass, Trixie weaves her way through the small clusters of people.  Like she suspected, she feels upstaged. Every outfit has more and more leather than the last, and they’re all bathed in purple-red light, like smashed plums, leading her slowly to the place where Katya is sitting.  

The lip-shaped loveseat itself is plush. _Nice touch._  It’s clearly the hosts table, a place where you have to be invited to sit, judging from the way Violet’s presiding over the little circle like a lioness.  

Her woman is there too.  

Fame.

Trixie’s not sure if it’s a first or last name, but gets the feeling that asking would make her look a fool, so she’s always just gone along with it.  Fame is looking quite regal in a little golden shift dress, and tightly curled blonde hair that ends just below her earlobes. One of her hands is absently resting on Violet’s thigh.  Her left hand, actually, which gives everyone a pretty good view of that goddamn _rock_.  Probably costs enough to buy Trixie’s entire apartment complex, not that she’s feeling jealous.

Katya hasn’t noticed her yet.  Her eyes are following whatever conversation Violet’s having, over tall drinks and little mirrors decorated with coke spirals, as Katya sucks in another breath of smoke, and attempts a half-hearted french inhale.

But when Katya does spot Trixie, oh, her whole face lights up.  

And she puts on one of those voices that Trixie _hates._

“Speak of the devil, it’s my goddamn girlfriend!”  

Katya’s in the swing of it.  She’s high on life, and additionally high on Violet’s twenty-eight percent THC count blunt.  Trixie can’t help but hold out her own hand and let herself be tugged down onto the couch next to her.  She stumbles as she does. Almost loses her shoe on the slippery wood floor, but recovers quickly.

“Hey!  This isn’t CVS, where the hell am I?”  Trixie jokes, settling in at Katya’s side.

All the shitty amateur theater that Trixie did in high school has really paid off in her adult years.  She knows how to expertly cover up her bullshit, pretend that everything’s fine and wash away suspicions with her dumb sense of humor, which is exactly what she’s doing now.  Determined and confident that she can make it through the night without a scene.

Katya’s arm wraps around her.  Trixie drops a kiss to Katya’s shoulder.  

_Usual, casual, and calm._

It’s always good like this, at Violet’s place.  Any other night Trixie would be begging Katya to get her ass off the couch and dance with her, but right now, she’s just trying to calculate the exact amount of hours she has before she must reveal to Katya that their life is, in fact, about to go to shit.

 

~

 

“Ladies, gentlemen…”  Violet extends her gloved jet-black hand in the direction of Katya, at the lip of the crowd that has formed in front her.  She’s standing before the ceiling-high windows on the far side of the loft, like it’s a stage, “... and prehistoric cave women.”

Katya grins ear-to-ear, and mumbles a _yes, God_.

The music is off.  The lights are still that same low rose-color as before, but now there’s a bright white light shining on Violet.  Leave it to this bitch to keep a spotlight in her own fucking apartment. Every single eye in the room is on her as she walks slowly to the right, grabbing a little black chair, dragging it so that it squeaks across the floor.

“This is a big night, right?”  She asks her little audience of friends and freaks.  “I bagged a bitch! Til death do us part! And even then, it’s up for debate.”  

Despite Violet’s generally unpleasant rock-hard exterior, there are moments—many moments, actually—when she expresses genuine emotion.  It’s kind of beautiful. Like seeing a rare flower bloom, or those videos of panthers acting like house cats. Trixie knows she should hate her.  At least feel a little jealous, but she doesn’t. Trixie _likes_ Violet, and all the twisted powermoves she makes, and the fact that underneath it all, she’s just a girl like the rest of them.

Violet sets the chair down in the middle of the floor, and then turns her head to Fame.

“But it’s not a party without a show.”

She literally _always_ does this.  

Katya’s hand is on Trixie’s waist.  She tugs her an inch closer, as Violet beckons Fame to sit down in the chair, and the party guests finally start to realize what’s going down.  

They make kind of an odd couple.  Fame seems a little bashful, poised with a hint of ditziness, as she sits in the chair with her hands on her knees, and a huge smile on her gorgeous picture-perfect face.  Not the type Trixie would expect Violet to fall for at _all_.  Then again, she doesn’t claim to know what goes on in Violet’s head half the time.

Next to Trixie, Katya is biting her bottom lip to hold back an expression of excitement.  That’s probably why she had been asked there early—rehearsals.

“Who here’s seen Death Proof?”  Violet asks.

Fame raises her hand.  As does Trixie, as does Katya, as do most people.

“If you didn’t raise your hand, get the _fuck_ out of my house.”  She adds, sending everyone into little drunken giggles.

Trixie tries to recall if she’s eaten dinner.  She doesn’t think she has. It’s a wonder why she suddenly feels like the room’s spinning, as the first notes of _Down In Mexico_ humm through Violet’s large speakers.   How can she throw up if there’s nothing to even throw up?  And fuck, how rude would that look? Leaving just as Violet sinks into a crouch in front of everyone.

Her gloved hands are like tarantulas.  Shining underneath the overhead lights.  Creeping over the skin of her own pale knees.

But rudeness be damned, the _room is spinning._  The room is hot with everyone’s breath, and their overly-perfumed bodies.  Even leaning on Katya isn’t enough to make her feel better about it, about how as Violet whips her long black hair over her shoulder, it feels like she whips the whole room around, too.

“I need air.”  Is all Trixie gets out, softly, before she turns on her heel and scurries through the crowd.

_Starwell._

_Stairwell._

Violet has a stairwell that’s quiet and cold, and Trixie bursts out of the front door like she’s running from a fire.  Behind her, she can hear everyone whistling and cheering for whatever Violet’s doing. _Maybe she took something off?_  Whatever. Trixie’s seen the movie, she knows how this dance ends.

The door closes behind her and the music is gone.  All she can hear is her own deep breathing in tremendous echoes through the hallway.  She’s not sure what set her off. Maybe the overwhelming weight of everyone else’s joy, combined with low blood sugar and the fact that she’s been lying her ass off to the woman she loves for like three hours now.

Katya’s barrelling through the door just a minute later, hair a little messy around her face.  

“Where the fuck did you go?”

Trixie leans against the cold cement wall and presses a hand to her stomach.

“I feel sick again.”  She says through gritted teeth.

“Again?”  Katya’s heels click loudly, echoing through the whole hallway, as she steps halfway down the flight of stairs and stops in front of Trixie.

Trixie looks up at Katya’s face, worried, and beautiful.  The sounds of the party are still going strong inside. Whoops and cheers, combined with the smooth music.  Katya reaches forward and places a hand on either side of Trixie’s arms. She’s trying to steady her, but Trixie knows she’s not going to pass out.  Not right now, at least. 

It’s obvious that there’s more to it than sickness.  Trixie's a good actor, but not that good.

“What’s going on?”  Katya’s voice is serious now.  

It’s harder to lie when she uses that tone.

It’s harder.  

It’s hard. 

It’s _really_ hard.

At long last, the tears that Trixie’s been choking down all morning pool up in her eyes.  

_See ya’ later, eighteen dollar mascara!_

“Oh, god…”  Trixie shakes her head, leans forward, throws her arms around Katya, burying her face in Katya’s neck, against the smooth skin adorned with a bit of perfume Trixie recognizes as her own.  It’s weak, but she’s so tired. She hasn’t truly stopped to breathe since she was in Kims bathroom. “Katya, I’m scared, I’m really fucking scared.”

She can feel Katya holding her, but loosely.  The unwelcoming latex of her dress rubs against Trixie's chin.  And then Katya’s shoving her away to an arm’s length, gripping Trixie by the chin with one of her hands.  When she’s angry, it’s a weird kind of scary-sexy. Intimidating because it’s so rare that she lets herself be overcome with any one emotion.  In any other circumstance, Trixie would be trying to bother her till she earned herself one rough fuck up against the wall, but right now, she’s just trembling.

“Trixie.”  Katya’s voice is low,  “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

She hasn’t planned out how she’s gonna say it, but Katya’s grip on her chin is tight, and all the time she had to be silent has run out.

Trixie opens her mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to note that some of the language I'll use in this fic to discuss Katya being trans is intended to be inner monologue, and doesn't reflect my personal opinions/politics, so thanks for understanding!

**The Night They Met**

 

This is the best night of Trixie’s entire sack-of-shit sheltered excuse for an existence.  No joke.  She’s certain, for the first time, that this is what it feels like to truly be alive.  Sitting on a barstool that’s three hard knocks away from breaking, nursing the strongest and most disgusting long island iced tea she’s ever tasted, and listening to Bob go on and on about how shitty the green room is.

“A closet,”  He complains, “It’s _literally_ a closet.  You’re gonna put a fucking drag queen in a closet?”

He’s an _angel._  An absolute angel in six inch pleasers, neon green lipstick, and hair that stiffly curls down over his shoulders.  The dress is over-the-top too. It’s covered in sequins and it reminds Trixie of the disco ball they’d had at her highschool prom, spinning for all its 32 attendees.  

The biggest hurdle was just escaping the clutches of the dusty midwest.  And to that bullet point on her to-do list she says _check_.  Check mate, Wisconsin, there’s no way you’re keeping this bitch down.  

Trixie’s known Bob ever since he was touring with a troupe that happened to breeze through Milwaukee.  With a cheap fake ID in hand, spry little twenty year old Trixie had never even been into a bar before, let alone a gay bar.  Maybe that’s why seeing him for the first time was such a vision. Bob’s good at lip syncing, but better at just getting on the mic and talking shit.  He’d heckled her nightgown she chose to wear as a dress, and after the show, she begged to buy him a drink. Paid for it with cash that her stepdad had given her in exchange for washing his truck, and ended up getting home at sunrise.  Now here they are. Two years later, still doing the same shit, just in a new setting.

“So you just got ready without a mirror, and that’s why you look like this?” Trixie asks.

“Fuck all the way off.”  

Bob gets to drink for free all night in exchange for the measly booking fee the bar pays out.  He’s not a no-namer, though. They give him the Friday slot because they know he’ll bring a crowd.  And bring a crowd he sure as shit did. Trixie had to hang around for five minutes just to get a seat in front of the bartender, and another four minutes before he actually noticed her.

“Who’s the opener tonight?”  Trixie asks, washing down her question with another sip of her drink, bitter and cold.

“Oh, you’re gonna lose your _mind_ when she’s on.”  Bob insists, “I’m not even gonna try and pronounce her actual name, but she goes by - ”

Before he can finish, the low drone of a mic being turned on too close to a receiver floods through the crowd.  One girl near the bathroom line is so drunk she actually cheers for it. It makes Trixie wince and place her free hand over her ear.

The stage is a modest space, standing five feet above the ground and adorned with a giant red curtain backdrop.  People have started gravitating towards it, _(it’s eleven thirty, so, about time)_ as the announcer stumbles tipsy onto the stage and taps the mic with two fingers. _Thump, thump.  Is this thing on?_

“Come on, get up front, I gotta go back there anyways.”  Bob nudges Trixie on the shoulder. “And if you tip her more than you tip me I’m not letting you crash my couch anymore.”

His dress makes a jingling sound as he steps down from the barstool.  Trixie’s pretty good at crowd weaving, even in heels and a dress that she doesn’t want someone to spill a drink on, so she mumbles her goodbyes and starts to drift towards the front of the stage.  

The guy on the mic—sporting a pair of bright gold hotpants, and a mesh shirt—is asking the usual questions that make drunk people happy.   _Are you guys having a good night?  Are you ready to get wild?_ By the time Trixie breaks through the frontlines of people, close enough to set her drink on the lip of the stage and fold her arms on the hardwood, everyone is waiting with baited breath.  This debaucherous sardine can of people, trying not to drop their cups, or trip over the person in front of them

It’s only her third night in L.A.

She’d pulled up on a Greyhound with all her shit stuffed into her childhood suitcase, pink with gaudy yellow flowers, that she’d used as a pillow for half the journey.  Her plan is - it’s whatever, really. Crash on Bob’s couch till she finds an apartment, and burn through as little of her savings as possible till she finds a job. She’d graduated beauty school back in Wisconsin, so she’s feeling pretty confident that something will work out.  Little girl in the big city syndrome, sure, but that’s how everyone starts out in L.A. Confused and underqualified.

“So if you guys will _please_ help me welcome to the stage…”

Trixie snaps out of her little trance.  The lights dim down to a deep blue. The girl next to Trixie checks her phone.

“...all the way from _Moscow_ …”

Lies.  Nobody would come to this shithole from Moscow.

“ _Katya Zamolodchikova!_ ”

Now she gets why Bob didn’t try and say it.  Everyone in the audience cheers like he just announced Britney Spears, absolutely due to the fact that they’d cheer just as enthusiastically no matter who was getting on stage.  The announcer shuffles off to the left, and the first notes of a weird offbeat synth pour through the speakers. It’s a surprise to hear something other than top forty. Or at least another kind of gay music, like an eighties ballad.

For a taught moment there’s nobody onstage.  

Then, the front lights come up, and she’s there.  

Boots up to her thighs and a little black leotard, might even be considered boring next to what Bob had on, but she looks fucking _stunning_.  Trixie had more or less expected the usual.  A big ridiculous wig, a thousand pounds of makeup and rhinestones, glamour gowns.   But she actually looks kind of womanly, with her subtle curves and long black lashes.

And then something else Trixie didn’t expect: the words to the song aren’t even fucking English.

Everyone’s acting like they know the words anyways.  The crowd probably isn’t as big as it feels, at the front, with people shoving Trixie from all sides, but the people who _are_ there are fucking living.  Someone to the side of the stage holds up a one.  Onstage, Katya slowly drops to her knees, back arching as she crawls forward, reaching her hand out like she’s going to take it, but then pushing her head forward and grabbing it in between her teeth.  

Suddenly, Trixie remembers why she brought dollar bills.

 

~

 

Backstage, Bob’s finishing up the daunting application of a three-inch lash.  It’s not a closet, he was being dramatic, but the room is small. Maybe five-by-five.  It reeks of smoke and perfume and sweat, but Trixie’s gotten used to it by this point. She’s sitting in a rickety little metal chair with her second drink of the night, next to a weathered poster of Madonna and a broken lamp.

“God, _that’s_ a woman.”

She hasn’t stopped raving about Katya’s performance.  Not since she watched the bitch go from a handstand to a backflip to a split like it was nothing.  

“No, seriously, she is.”  Bob mumbles.

His face is expressionless as he presses the lash on, taps it gently a few times.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s actually a woman.  I dunno how else to say it.” Bob blinks a few times. The lashes flutter perfectly,  “Female-identified? Is that the terminology?”

“Oh, I got it.”  Trixie nods.

The handle on the door to the green room jiggles.  The off-white paint is already on it’s way to peeling off in sheets, and a chip of it becomes dislodged as the door swings open, and Katya pokes her head through the doorframe.  She’s got a shimmer of sweat on her brow, and drink in her hand, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Bob, move your ass, you’re on.”  She hisses.

Trixie had expected a Russian accent, but now there is none.  She actually kind of has a smoker voice. It’s a weird situation, because Trixie knows how she dresses.  She knows that to everyone else, she looks like a lost little straight girl who’s thirty minutes away from throwing up on someone’s shoes.  That’s usually what people assume when she’s in a gay bar. That, or that she’s one of the performers. _Oh, that was really flattering_.  So there’s an extra layer of feeling out of place, in the tiny green room, tapping her pink nails against the edge of her glass.

“You know, some of us actually do our hair and makeup.  Weird, right?” Bob stands up, towering over Trixie now where she’s sitting.

“I just can’t relate to that.”  Katya breathes, and then laughs, swinging the door the rest of the way open and strutting into the room.  

Katya hasn’t even looked at Trixie yet, which is making her more nervous.  Trixie pulls her legs in closer to herself and Katya flops down onto the tiny two-seater couch pushed up against what appears to be a cleaning supply shelf.  There’s a discarded black purse laying on the ground, and Katya begins rummaging through it. A moment later she pulls out a little silver case and a lighter.

“Do you want me to call you an Uber or something?”  Bob asks Trixie, already half out the door.

She looks up from her lap.

“What?  No, I’m good.”  She gives him a dorky thumbs up, and Bob shakes his head in amusement at her, before shutting the door.

All the sounds of the club are muffled through the wall.  Cheering as Bob gets onstage, a deep thumping bass, a bouncer telling someone to fuck off.  It makes it additionally weird, to sit next to Katya as she sparks her lighter against what Trixie instantly recognizes as a joint, and not a cigarette.  It’s super quiet. Katya inhales, blowing smoke out from between her red lips, and then lolls her head to the side to smirk at Trixie.

“Hey.”  She blinks slowly.  Maybe she’s just tired from the show, but she seems low-energy, unless Trixie’s mistaking her attempt at being demure.  “You’re the hillbilly Bob was talking about.”

Trixie frowns.   _Bob had been talking about her?_

“I like to think of myself as Life-On-The-Road-Barbie, but yeah.  That’s me.”

It makes Katya laugh.  Thank _God_ , it makes Katya laugh.

“Fitting.”  She scoots forward to the edge of the couch, and takes another pull off the joint, before reaching out and offering it up between two fingers.  “I’m Katya.”

Trixie doesn’t really smoke weed, but she _does_ live to impress, and she’s not about to decline a joint from a beautiful woman her first week in Los Angeles.  

She grabs it from Katya’s fingers, and their nails click together.

“Is that your real name?”

Trixie winces right after she says it.  Maybe that’s rude, she’s not sure.

“Unfortunately.”  Katya folds her arms over the edge of the couch.  She rests her chin on them like a pillow, and tucks her feet up underneath her, as if this alcohol-soaked rag of a couch is cozy.  “I’ve been trying to get it changed to Trish, but that shit costs like a hundred dollars or somethin’, and honey, I ain’t got that kinda’ money no more, not since my fourth husband passed away, may he rest in God’s good graces.”  

By the end of the sentence she’s talking in this gross Bostonian townie accent, and before Trixie can even heckle it, Katya’s bursting out laughing again, at herself.  Trixie takes a pull off the joint. It’s shallow enough so that she wont start coughing. In fact, she probably looks like she’s scared of it.

“What else did Bob tell you about me?”  Trixie asks, as Katya takes the joint back and wraps her lips around it.  There’s at least two thick rings of lipstick on the filter, red and pink, but only Trixie seems worried about it.

“Just that you’re new in the city, and that I’d like you.”  Katya says through a mouth full of smoke, and winks.

_Oh, flirting?  That feels like flirting._

Trixie’s not sure what to make of it.

“Well, I’m a really good person, so you probably will.”  Trixie deadpans.

She accepts the joint when Katya reaches over to pass it to her again, even though she’s honestly scared of getting too high and saying something ridiculous.  Last time she smoked weed she just ate an entire bag of potato chips and fell asleep without taking off her makeup.

“Are you really gonna make me reach my arm out to pass you that every time?”  Katya asks. She shifts her legs back down to the floor. “Come on, sit over here.”

Trixie’s still taking baby inhales, almost-dead joint between her fingernails, but she figures there’s no harm in getting a little closer.  Even if it makes her palms sweat. The way Katya’s eyes drag over her as she stands up, clicks her heels over to sit down on the couch. It’s so small that their thighs are immediately pressed together, and the fabric of the couch is sticky, but she tries not to think about why.

She hands the joint back to Katya.

“How long have you been performing?”  Trixie asks.

“Twenty-four-seven since birth, mama.”  Katya answers easily. She pulls the last of smoke out of the rapidly dying roach, and then overhands it to the little trashcan in the corner of the room, missing by an inch or two. It smolders against the disgusting wood floor, but she doesn’t seem to care.  Mouth full of smoke, lips pursed together, suddenly Trixie feels a fingertip underneath her own chin.

She looks over at Katya.  

Her eyes are so fucking blue, it takes Trixie a moment to realize she’s being pulled forward, and Katya’s parting her lips, and Trixie opens her mouth too, feels smoke drip out of Katya’s throat and into her own.  She inhales. It’s not quite a kiss. Honestly, just a brush of lips, but Trixie can hear her own fucking heartbeat double in her chest.

Then Katya’s pulling back.  

She seems kind of pleased with herself.  Pleased that she’s turned Trixie into a nervous goddamn high schooler and they’ve only been together for about five minutes.  

Katya slides her hand forward over Trixie’s thigh.  Over the soft skin, up towards the hem of her little cocktail dress.  

“I’m gonna be honest, I don’t live just around the corner...”  Katya starts. Trixie stares at her intently. Hanging on every word.  Licking her own lips, “...but I _really_ wanna fuck you.  So if you’re down, we might have to get a little creative.”

In the back of her mind, Trixie does have a few questions milling around.  None that she’s going to ask out loud—she’s not a straight-up cunt—but she really isn’t sure what’s the situation between Katya’s legs.  She has the face of an angel, and ridiculously strong arms, and amazing curves, and this voice that keeps switching between breathy and gravelly.  So no, Trixie isn’t sure what to make of it, but she knows that she wants to fuck her maybe worse than she’s ever wanted to fuck anyone else in her admittedly boring life.

In the background, the bass-line begins again.  It vibrates a few discarded eyeshadow palettes on the vanity hard enough that one of them tumbles to the floor and breaks open.

“I’m down.”

 

~

 

Katya tells her to run ahead and wait for her in one of the bathroom stalls.  

Literally any other night Trixie would’ve refused.  Any other night, with anyone else, she would’ve considered herself better than a club bathroom fuck.  But she’s tipsy, and for some reason the three hits off Katya’s joint has her all dewy between her thighs.  She flips through her phone while she waits, leaning against the grimy wall with her free hand absently tugging on the collar of her dress.

She barely hears the knock on the door over the club music, but she sees Katya’s shoes.  Different boots. Ones that only reach up to her mid-calf.

Trixie unlocks the door.

It makes sense why Katya would’ve wanted to change her outfit.  Leotard and tights aren’t exactly a bathroom hookup ensemble, so when she slinks into the stall with a groan of the metal door, she’s wearing this off-the-shoulder black dress.  It’s silky, and it slides against Trixie’s skin as Katya reaches forward, not even saying _hello_ , and hauls her into a deep kiss.

_God._

_Her mouth is so warm._

A faint taste of smoke lingers on Katya’s tongue, but mostly just sweet, and skin, as Trixie parts her lips and lets Katya press her back against the wall.  The graffiti-covered bathroom tile is cold. It makes Trixie wince at the places where it touches open skin, but she can hardly feel anything except Katya’s body against hers.

Trixie can’t believe how beautiful she is.  She really can’t. Everything about her, the hair, to her lips, to her fucking incredible arms that - just less than an hour ago - she was using to hold herself up in a handstand.  

“Liking L.A. so far?”  Katya breathes against the shell of her ear.

“It’s kind of gross.”  Trixie laughs. “But I’m getting used to it.”

The bathroom isn’t even a clean bathroom.  It’s lit with an off-yellow light that keeps dimming, and there’s two stalls, not just one, so rest in peace to whatever drunk girl tries to use it for the next twenty or so minutes.  

Katya places her thumb over Trixie’s lips, full and wet with spit, running back and forth over them once.  Some of her lipstick smudges. Trixie couldn’t be bothered about it. While she’s toying with Trixie’s mouth, Katya’s other hand trails up her thigh.  It makes Trixie suck in a sharp breath, when Katya finally slips under her dress, and presses her hand against the damp fabric of Trixie’s panties.

“Already wet?”  

It makes a bright red blush break out over Trixie’s face, but she doesn’t look away.  

“I’ve been wet ever since you did a fucking handstand.”  She breathes.

Her entire body is live wire, on edge, just wanting _more_.  More than Katya’s hand groping her, as much as the small touch makes her shiver.  She wants to put her tongue over every inch of Katya’s body. She wants to know what her sweat tastes like, what kind of fucking perfume she has on—all of it.

So Trixie drops to her knees.

She sees the little spark of surprise in Katya’s eyes.   _Down on the floor without even being asked, huh?_  She lives for it.  It makes her even more confident, so she turns her head and bites down on Katya’s thumb, sucks on it softly while she creeps her hands up Katya's smooth thighs.  

“Christ, you’re pretty.”  Katya breathes.

Surprisingly, Trixie’s sexual history is actually quite limited.  She’d fucked a girl on prom night, a few girls when she was in beauty school, but in the big picture she’s inexperienced.  The most action she’s seen in the past five months is literally her bubblegum pink vibrator, and her own goddamn hand. That’s why there’s a little flutter in her stomach as she pulls her lips off Katya’s thumb and pushes up the hem of Katya’s skirt, over her full hips, revealing a small pair of black lace panties.  Underneath them, Katya’s hard, straining against the slightly see-through fabric.

Katya must notice Trixie’s pause.  

She taps Trixie on the cheek with one of her hands.

“Hey, you don’t have to -“

“I want to.”  Trixie says before Katya can even finish.  “I _really_ want to.”  

She looks up at Katya, all doe-eyed and eager, as she opens her mouth and fastens her teeth on the hem of Katya’s underwear.  That makes Katya’s eyes go even wider. All blue and white. She tugs them down halfway with her mouth, enough that the head of Katya’s cock pokes out against her stomach.  It’s pink, kind of pretty, thick, and Trixie doesn’t waste any more time before she shoves Katya’s underwear down the rest of the way down using hands.

She slowly and wraps her lips around the head of Katya's cock, running her tongue back and forth once, soft, and curious.

“Fuck.”  Katya hisses out.  

She looks awestruck.  Trixie lets her eyes fall shut.  She’s sucked on a strapon before, and this really isn’t a whole lot different.  If anything, it tastes better.

Trixie takes Katya further into her mouth, feeling the fingers in her hair tighten and tug.  It makes her dizzy. Makes her aware that she’s so fucking wet she’s soaked through her panties, now sticky against her thighs.  

Outside, someone opens the stall next to them.  It squeaks shut.

Katya responds by moaning louder.

She bucks her hips forward till the head of her cock bumps against the back of Trixie’s mouth, and where she fully expected to gag, she doesn’t.  Doesn’t feel anything except her knees growing sore against the floor and the hand pulling at her hair. Trixie breaks away for a moment to gasp, strings of spit clinging to her mouth, that she licks clean.  Above her, Katya smiles—fucking _smiles—_ before she tugs Trixie’s head forward and pushes back into her mouth.  Trixie wants to see that expression on Katya’s face again. Wants to see her knees go weak.

Determined, she presses forward, forward, forward still, until her lips are practically touching Katya’s pelvis, feeling tears pricking at her eyes.  And then, just to showboat, she swallows. Swallows around Katya’s cock, dragging this broken whimper out of her.

“Holy shit.”  Katya moans, biting down on her lip and shaking her head.  “God, that's - oh my _God_.”

This time Trixie does cough when she pulls away, just once, breath coming ragged.  Her lipstick is smeared everywhere and her chin is covered with drool.

“I fucking love how you taste.”  Trixie gasps.

She wipes off her chin with the back of her hand, and then leans back in.

It may be her first time sucking dick, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t gonna give it everything she has, not when Katya looks so far gone above her.  She starts moving her head steadily now, using her manicured hand to wrap around whatever she can’t fit in her mouth. Katya’s little off-the-shoulder dress has slipped down, exposing one of her breasts.  It’s perky, kind of cute, and Trixie realizes that it wasn’t padding she was wearing onstage. _Oh, if her mouth weren’t already occupied._

There’s an expression of bliss painted on Katya’s face.  The way she’s tugging at Trixie’s hair is so desperate, and her breathing is coming faster and faster as she uses one hand to brace herself against the wall.  Trixie knows what it’s like when a girl’s close. Knows what that little expression of concentration means.

_Fuck, she’s gonna hate me for this._

Trixie pulls off.

“If you’re gonna come please don’t do it on my face, my mascara costs eighteen dollars.”  She rushes out.

Katya goes still, and looks down at her slowly.

_Yeah, definitely gonna’ hate me._

“Are you - are you fucking serious?”  She asks through heavy breaths.

Trixie shrugs.

“Fine, _fine_ , where - do you want it in your mouth?”

“I mean, not really…”  Trixie sighs. She reaches up and brushes a bit of hair out of her own eyes.

Katya’s eyes roll into the back of her fucking skull, and then she’s grabbing Trixie by her shoulder, and hauling her back up to eye-level.  

“You’re kind of a brat, you know that?”  

Trixie feels her press her back into the wall again.  Katya slides a leg between Trixie’s thighs, so that the hem of her cocktail dress is rucked up around her hips.  She can feel Katya’s cock against her, too, and rocks her hips down against it, finally getting just a bit of friction through her panties.

“Fuck…”  Trixie breathes, “I don’t… don’t carry condoms or anything.”

She didn’t think she needed to, but the way Katya’s grinding up against her, she thinks she just might fucking start.

“You think a bitch came unprepared?”  Katya asks. She punctuates the sentence by leaning forward and biting down on Trixie’s lip hard.  It makes Trixie whine, and when Katya lets go, the stinging lingers, “Turn around.”

Trixie lets herself be spun around.  She feels Katya press a kiss to the back of her neck, and it has her shivering.  It’s a bit of a loss not to see Katya’s face; instead, she’s stuck looking at all the scribbles on the wall, different names and phone numbers and expletives.  She braces herself with both hands, as Katya slides a hand up the back of her legs and hikes Trixie’s skirt over her ass.

Katya pulls her panties down around her knees and, before Trixie can even beg, there’s fingers inside of her.  Two at first, making her whimper against the wall, and claw at the tile. Behind her, Katya slides a hand over Trixie’s waist, keeping a grip on her as she rocks her fingers in and out carefully.

“Katya, _please._ ”  Trixie whines.

She can feel Katya grinning against her skin.

“Please what?”

“Please _hurry the fuck up_.”

That does the trick.

Katya pulls her fingers out roughly, and Trixie glances over her shoulder to watch Katya reach down to her boot, and tug a condom out of the ankle. _Had that really been in there the whole time?_   Trixie’s trembling, dripping down her own thighs, as Katya runs a hand down her back and tears open the condom with her teeth.  The wrapper falls somewhere on the ground, along with all the other disgusting shit that’s probably graced this floor.  

There’s a little pause as Katya rolls the condom on.  Trixie rests her forehead against the tile. Someone exits the second stall and rushes back out into the club without washing their hands.

Then, she feels Katya gripping her by the hip again. 

As Katya pushes in slowly, she moans against the back of Trixie’s neck, and Trixie feels her own mouth fall open.  It’s different than getting fucked with silicone. It’s warmer, more pliable, like when she moves she’s moving with Katya, and so move she _does_.  She leans her head back against Katya’s shoulder, neck bared, as Katya starts to fuck her into the wall, unforgiving and desperate.  Almost like a beat. Almost like they’re keeping time.

“God, Katya.”  Trixie whimpers.  She reaches back, trying to find some part of her to hold onto, and ends up winding her hand in Katya’s hair.  “Please - _please_ don’t stop.”

She knows that Bob must have figured out, by now, where they both got off to.  Why there’s nobody in the green room. Not that she gives a shit. All she can pay attention to is the little burst of pleasure in her body every time Katya pushes inside her, every time her body gets knocked against the wall.  Her knees feel weak, too; she’s struggling to keep herself up. If it wasn’t for Katya holding onto her hip she might’ve already slipped.

Katya’s hand moves from Trixie’s hip, to creep underneath her skirt again and start rubbing her clit as best she can.  It’s an awkward fuck, standing up and pressed against the wall, both of them still half-dressed, but Trixie whimpers when she does.

“Feel so good, baby.”  Katya’s voice is shaking slightly, “You’re so fuckin’ hot.”

It’s useless ramblings, stuff she would probably say to any other girl, but it has Trixie’s whole body flooding with warmth because right now, it’s her.   _She’s_ the one Katya’s fucking.   _She’s_ the one making her feel good.

Katya’s movements have long since become uncoordinated, and suddenly, the grip on Trixie tightens, as Katya fucks into Trixie _deep_ , moans loud in her ear, and goes still.  

It’s a beautiful sound.  Broken and high-pitched, punctuated with heavy breathing.  

Trixie rolls her hips back against Katya as she finishes, pulls out, and leaves Trixie empty.

“Fuck.”  Katya gasps.  Trixie nods in agreement, forehead sliding against the wall, a little red imprint left in its wake.  “Did you come?”

Trixie listens to the sound of Katya tugging the condom off and tying it with a tiny squeak.

“Not yet.”  Trixie considers lying; ultimately decides against it.  “I’m close, though.”

Katya spins her around again.  

Now, her dress has completely slipped down her chest, exposing two dark pierced nipples, a few tattoos peppered over her ribs, and one over her breast.  This time Katya’s the one sinking to her knees. All the way to the disgusting spilled-drink soaked floor, and pulling Trixie’s panties all the way down to her feet.  

Trixie steps out of them one fuck-me-pump at a time.

“I can fix that.”  Katya breathes.

Her red lipstick is half gone on her face, and Trixie knows it’s only about to get worse.   _So much worse._  Katya hikes Trixie’s leg up over her shoulder.  She leans forward slowly, and presses this teasing kiss to Trixie’s clit that makes Trixie whimper in the back of her throat.

And then she just dives in.  Trixie doesn’t think she’s ever felt anyone eat pussy like this, absolutely ravenous, entire head moving with the movement.  It makes Trixie cry out and grab Katya’s hair desperately. Katya presses two fingers inside Trixie, next to her tongue, and Trixie’s already shaking against the wall.  Already feeling the heat pooling in her stomach, and it’s fucking _embarrassing_.  It’s embarrassing that Katya has her so on edge, but in thirty seconds or less, she’s coming.  

She practically yells Katya’s name when she does.  Head thumping back against the wall. Eyes squeezed shut.  Shuddering.

In fact, it’s only when she opens her eyes and sees Katya’s wet face that she realizes she didn’t really give any warning to that fact that, when she does come, it’s a mess.

“Shit, sorry.”  She exhales, ragged and exhausted, removing her leg from it’s perch on Katya’s soulder.

“Sorry?”  Katya asks, and drags one of her fingers over her own lips, over the drops of Trixie’s squirt clinging to her face, before sucking it into her mouth.  She mumbles around her finger, “Why sorry?”

Trixie shakes her head at the sight, and laughs, breathless.

“I don’t know.”  She says. “I really don’t know.”

An hour later, they turn on the lights in the bar.  

_Everyone fuck off and ship out, please, especially the chicks going ham in the bathroom._

Outside the club, Katya has a long wool coat on over her dress.  It’s a chilly three in the morning, the kind you don’t want to walk home in, and she’s smoking a cigarette a few feet away from the club entrance.  Light from the glowing bar sign bathes her face in a soft red color, and reflects a little satanic off her eyes.

Trixie shivers in the cold.

“Wanna hop in?”  Katya asks. She grabs the corner of her coat, and holds it open.

Trixie kind of wants to stay away from the smoke, but she’s freezing in her little dress, and so she steps in and situates herself underneath Katya’s arm.  It’s like a sauna. Who knew Katya was one coat away from becoming a fucking electric blanket? Still, she’s thankful for the permeating heat of Katya’s skin, and slips an arm around her waist to huddle closer.

“I have to ask you something.”  Katya says, serious now, “Please don’t kill me.”

“Shoot.”

Katya ashes her cigarette at an arm’s length.

“What’s your name again?”

~

**Present**

 

It kind of reminds her of the night they met, but in a distant, sick way.  Like hearing a song you used to love that you hate now. Katya’s smoking underneath the street lamp.  The sounds of the party are dripping through the open windows upstairs, raging on without them. Trixie’s surprised nobody’s called the cops for a noise complaint.  Then again, LAPD probably has much better things to be doing than go ruining some cheap socialite’s big evening.

Katya had said she needed to go outside for a cigarette.  She’s been quiet, but the anxiety is plastered all over her face with every inhale, with the way she’s studying the sidewalk like it has the answers etched into the crumbling cement.

“Do you want to keep it?”  She asks, at last.

“What?”  Trixie’s surprised at the question,  “No, of _course_ I don’t want to keep it.”

She’s thought about it, and no, there’s no way they’re ready for a kid.  She’s certain that they’ll never be ready for a kid, just by eyeballing their lifestyle for two fucking minutes.  The way Katya likes to move through the world one day at a time, and the way Trixie likes to go out for drinks on her last dollar.  They’re not—they’re just not _motherly_.  It’s not in their repertoire.  And of course there was a time in Trixie’s life when she wanted kids.  What stupid girl who grew up on a farm didn’t? She’d wanted one, or two, in the far-off future, but had accepted that as a non-probability once she got serious with Katya.  

 _A fair trade,_ she thought. _It’s a fair trade for how much I love her._

“Do you know how much it costs?  To get rid of it?”

Trixie shakes her head.

“Can’t be too much, right?”

Katya nods.

“We’ll figure it out.”

Katya turns to her then, like she’s surfacing from whatever kind of bottom-of-the-ocean depths her mind had receded into, and her eyes melt.   _There she is_.  Katya drops her half-burned cigarette to the ground and reaches for Trixie, in the warmth of the night, pulling her in.  She still smells like Violet’s house, kind of, and weed. Trixie breathes in the smell of her.

“I’m sorry, baby.  I’m so fucking sorry.”  Katya says quietly.

Trixie hadn’t realized how badly she needed it.  The comfort Kim gives is one thing, but the comfort that Katya gives is _everything_.  Trixie buries her face in Katya’s shoulder and hugs her back so tightly she thinks that she can hear Katya’s latex dress squeak against her own outfit.

“It’s not your fault.”  Trixie mumbles.

“It’s a little my fault.”  Katya says.

It’s nobody’s fault.  Not really. But as if it were, they stand there like a couple of idiots hugging underneath the shallow column of light, as the sun begins to move back around the earth, flooding the sky with new tones of blue, and the people upstairs continue to dance as if nobody has ever a single care in the world, and never will.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some allusions to Katya's horrible childhood in this chapter. Also, say hello to me at @cherikatya on tumblr if you want to! Bisous.

Katya’s boss is named Jean-Claude.  He has about three last names, and she’s positive one of them is Devreaux, although that could be her colorful imagination talking.  He lives in the apartment above the shop, hoarder-style; a place that Katya’s only been allowed in once, when he wanted help moving his antique teacup collection.  One would be hard pressed to find anyone in the world more Parisian than him. He’d immigrated at the ripe age of thirty, and Katya’s certain she was only hired because she looked vaguely gay and had it listed on her resume that she spoke French.  It’s not as good as her Russian by a long shot, but it’s enough to listen to him whine about how the wig section needs to be colorized, or how he needs Katya to stop taking smoke breaks with the UPS guys whenever they deliver new inventory shipments.  

She’s one of two employees, but she’s his favorite.  In a way he’s kind of like an uptight gay uncle. The kind of uncle that isn’t afraid to tell you that your hopes and dreams are shit and your hair is a mess and you need to get your life together.  

Thursday morning when Katya comes in, it’s one of those days.  Hair a mess get your life together kind of days. Her and Trixie had gotten home at almost four in the morning the previous night, and she slept like shit, just turning the news over and over in her mind.

_You dumb fucking cunt, of course this would happen.  Of course there was a chance._

She really doesn’t understand how people are overjoyed when they figure out they’re having a baby.  The crying and jumping into each other's arms, making a billion posts on Facebook. It just doesn’t make any fucking sense.  And worse than that, there’s this guilt that’s been building up in her chest because Trixie shouldn’t even have to deal with this.  She’s _gay_ , for fucks sake.  She should be off on the Isle of lesbos grinding pussies with Ellen Page, not getting knocked up by her soul-of-a-woman but arms-of-a-steelworker sorry second-rate excuse for a girlfriend.

Katya tries not to… think like that anymore.  Not to say the kind of shit about herself that she would deck someone else for saying.  But things _should_ be different.  She knows things should be different for her and Trixie, even if making any actual change happen seems to be damn near impossible.  

The bell over the shop door jungles as she pushes through it, and immediately, she hears her boss calling from the back.  

“ _Katya!  Tu es en retard!_ ”

She groans loud enough that he can hear.

“ _Désolé Jean-Claude!_ ”  She likes to speak French in a breathy over the top accent, like she’s on the silver screen, really emphasize the drama in the mundane.  

Of course, he has no idea that she just spent the entire fucking night practically rocking herself back and forth into a stupor over this pregnancy scare.  Well, it’s not really a scare at this point.  Horror?  Pregnancy horror.  Sure.

Jean-Claude, all five feet and six inches of him, shuffles out of the back room and up to the tacky front desk.  He likes to leave for lunch, so she swings behind the partition and settles against the far wall where they keep the weekly schedule hung up, as well as the phone numbers for the LAPD, poison control, and a crisis ride service.  

“ _Ça va?_ ”  He asks, although he’s busy pulling a crisp twenty out of the register.  Apparently being a business owner means you can just do that kind of shit—who knew?

“Awful, thanks for asking.”  Katya says with a smile on her face.

“Hungover?”  

“Miraculously, no.  Although it’s never too late to get one going, anything good in the mini fridge?”  She prods.

“If you are drunk at work, I will fire you. _Je suis sérieux_.”  He shoves the bill into his pocket.

“I could take a shit on the register and call your mother a whore and I’d get a slap on the hand, maybe.”  She says, “Face it, Jean, I’m here for life.”

He walks towards the door mumbling something about _femmes méchantes_ and shaking his head.  As he leaves, the door slams shut behind him, and Katya’s left alone in amongst the costumes, oddities, all of which smell vaguely of moth balls and semen.

She makes a beeline for the shop phone.

It’s one of those old ones that clacks around on its receiver, and is attached to the wall with a spiraling cord, and she likes it because it kind of makes her hands look petite next to the monstrous buttons.  She’d written down Peppermint’s personal phone number on her arm before leaving home. She’s not technically supposed to have it, but Peppermint had told her in the past that pharmacies can be real fuckers when it comes to dishing out hormones, and that if she ever found herself in a bind, she could call.  

This isn’t exactly about hormones, but it sure as hell is a question for a doctor.  

The phone rings three times, and then there’s a click on the other line, and Peppermint’s  voice is bright and chipper through the receiver.

“Hello?”  

Katya has to bite her tongue not to say something obscenely stupid as a greeting.  This is a professional inquiry. No need to make poor Dr. Moore regret giving out her number in the first place.

“Hey, hi, it’s Katya.”  She waits a moment for Peppermint’s little _oh_ of recognition.  “How’s it going?”

“Good.  I haven’t seen you in a while, is everything fine?”  She asks. “Your prescription’s up to date?”

“Oh yeah, all that’s great.”  Katya assures her.

She’s just not quite certain how to phrase the next part.  

A woman in her fifties with massive sunglasses walks through the shop door, and Katya gives her a passive wave.

“I actually - I’m calling about something a little offbeat.”  Katya continues.

“What’s that?”

She turns toward the wall and lowers her voice.

“Well, the thing is - “ It’s obvious over the phone that she’s nervous, “ - my girlfriend’s pregnant.  It’s mine. I mean, it _better_ be, right?”  She laughs, half hearted.  

“What?”  Peppermint sounds genuinely shocked, “That’s... _really_ unlikely.”

“Tell me about it.”

She can hear Peppermint hum to herself.

“Well, congratulations, I think.  Are you guys wanting to come in for an ultrasound?”  

Katya practiced how she was going to ask this in the mirror.  She tried to make it sound the least amount of lecherous as she possibly could, but you know—shit's hard.

“I do.  We really need to know how long she’s been pregnant, it’s just...God, we literally don’t have any fucking money right now.”  She grimaces, “I don’t know what the options are for a couple of broke bitches with no insurance, but I thought I’d ask.”

Peppermint is quiet for a moment.

“Oh.”  Katya waits with bated breath, chewing on her own bottom lip, “What are you asking?”

 _Shit_.

“I guess I was asking if we could just kind of…” She waves her hand in the air, as if Peppermint can see her or something “...come in, some time, when you had a moment.”

 _Off the books_ , is what she doesn’t say.  

It such a fucking long shot.  But after a moment, Peppermint sighs.

“It’ll have to be after hours.”  She says at last, “Can you make it this Friday at seven in the evening?”

It’s all Katya can do to not fall to her knees and weep with joy.  

Somewhere in the shop, she hears the sound of one of the sunglasses wheels being turned, screeching loudly on its stand.

“Yes!  Yes, we can be there, thank you so much, you have _no_ idea.”  

Even though to be fair, if _anyone_ has an idea of what she’s going through, it’s Peppermint.

“And if anyone asks, this never happened.”  

“Absolutely not.”  Katya agrees. “Thank you, again.”

She hangs the phone up on the wall and lets out a sigh of relief.  

Eventually, after asking if Katya can throw away her empty Starbucks cup, the woman in the sunglasses exits the store, and Katya’s certain she stole something, but doesn’t do a single fucking thing to stop her.

At least she can come home to Trixie with good news.

 

~ 

 

Katya gets home from work at six, usually, unless customers decide to linger and she has to passive aggressively start performing the closing duties while they shop.  But there wasn’t any stragglers today. She’d handed the keys to Jean-Claude and made a note that he needed to fix the lights on the back wall of the shop, as well as get new paper towel dispensers, and order a new mannequin (their last one had, miraculously, been stolen).  

She’s trying to figure out exactly how to play this.  Sure, the thought of having a baby kind of makes her want to light herself on fire, but this is about Trixie.  This has to be about making sure she’s okay. Katya has no right to be the one losing her shit, so she won’t, because that’s just the decision she’s made within herself.  

She makes it past the two blocks near their house that are plagued with an empty construction lot, fenced off, and then again past the Spanish market.  They just put out fresh mangos, and she wants to stop and buy some, but their food budget for the month is getting slim. Next paycheck, all that jazz.

The sun sets violently in her eyes.  Through the thick black sunglasses she’s sporting, everything’s peach-colored, as she unlocks the criss-cross wrought iron gate that covers the entrance to their complex, the one that leads into a low-hanging and generally dusty stairwell, and makes her way up three flights of stairs until she finally reaches her own front door.  

Apartment 42, although someone has drawn a zero behind the two golden numbers in sharpie.  Surprisingly, it wasn’t even her.

When she gets inside, she immediately spots Trixie on the bed.  

There’s really nowhere to hide from each other living in a studio.  She’s laying on her stomach with a video game controller in her hand— _oh, good, adult stuff —_ connected to their tiny shitty little television.  Katya never was able to get into the whole video games thing, but she never says no to sitting back and watching Trixie get all angry while mashing the buttons.  

“How’s it going?”  

Trixie pauses it and drops her controller onto the bed.  She’s just in her ‘beat the heat’ outfit, which means a little pink tank top and a pair of cute white cotton underwear.  She’s got her hair pulled up on top of her head in a scrunchie, lazily, so that a few strands still drip down around her face and eyes.  

“Fine.”  Trixie says, I’m a very not fine kind of way, “Work was really slow so they let me go early.”

Katya kicks off her shoes in the doorway and pads over to the bed.  It’s been tense between them, she knows; their morning hadn’t been filled with the usual kisses and teases.  Even still, she watches Trixie roll over as Katya sits down, and she reaches out to place her hand gently on Trixie’s waist and give her a squeeze.

“I called my doctor.  She said she can check you out this Friday.”  Katya says; her thumb rubs over the little muffin top at Trixie’s hip, soft and lovely.

Trixie closes her eyes.

“It doesn’t fucking matter.”

_Huh?_

“What do you mean?”

“I checked with like three clinics today, it’s… _fuck_.  It’s almost our entire rent.”  Trixie brings both her hands up to her own face and rests them defeated over her eyes.  “There’s no way… there’s no way we can get that in a month.”

The level of despair in Trixie’s voice sets Katya on edge.  When Trixie feels things, it’s always so all-encompassing. Extending even to the people around her.  Not to mention the people who love her. But Katya’s keeping a level-head, because that’s her role in the situation.  To be the rock.

“We don’t even know how long it’s been.  We could have more time.” Katya assures her.

Trixie’s hands are still covering up her face.  

Katya isn’t certain about anything, but she’s certain that they’re a long way from totally throwing in the towel.  When you’re backed into a corner, you don’t go limp, you fucking fight harder. It’s what she’s always done. It’s what she did when she was seventeen, in a headlock underneath her father’s disgusting sweat-soaked arm as he ran an electric razor back and forth over her head.  It would’ve been easy to break. But instead, she chose to find the silver linings.  Being bald had made it easier to wear wigs, and it also meant he didn’t have anything to drag her by when he found her halfway out the window, running shoes on, backpack full of all her dresses and makeup she'd dug out of the trash.  And hey, it must’ve worked. Here she is, years later, looking life dead in the eye yet again.

Katya gently wraps her hands around Trixie’s wrists and peels them back off her face.  

She’s not crying, but Katya can tell that she has a couple times prior that day.  The mascara on her bottom lashes are faded, and she can see the freckles poking out on her cheeks.

“I seriously need you to believe me when I say we’ve got this.”  Katya says, “And if all else fails, I can just Gone With The Wind you.”

Trixie rolls her eyes, but she _does_ smile.

“I’m serious, that’s a mean flight of stairs we’ve got out there.”  Katya gestures to the front door. “You know I’d do anything for you, babe.”

“Oh my god, _stop._ ”  Trixie finally seems to relax, shoulders slumping back on the bed.  A soft wind rolls through the window and flutters a stack of old receipts they have collected on their nightstand.  She looks up at Katya. “I like this thing you’ve got going on with your hair.”

Katya reaches up and taps at her head with one of her hands.  She’d pulled parts of her hair into two tiny ponytails, sitting high on top of the rest of her loose slightly-curled mane.

“Cheerleader fantasy?”

“Didn’t make it on the cheer team but still dreaming fantasy, maybe.”

Katya huffs out a laugh and then—Christ, can’t help herself—leans down and kisses Trixie softly on the mouth.  Katya’s lipstick has mostly faded from work, and Trixie’s just wearing chapstick, so it’s clean, soft, tastes just like skin and spit.  It makes her feel like they aren’t even drowning.

 

~

 

Dr. Moore’s office doesn’t look like any other doctor’s office Katya has ever been to.  She has indoor plants in all the corners, art on the walls (not just the usual landscape bullshit, but things that are genuinely nice to look at), and more resource pamphlets than Katya even knew existed scattered on every surface.  After-hours, the lights at the front desk were turned off, but Peppermint had met them at the front door to unlock it. She’s still wearing her medical coat, and a little blue pencil skirt and matching blouse underneath. Katya thinks she’s a fucking madwoman for wearing heels to work, but doesn’t mention it.  After a quick informal question and answer session (medical history and allergies), Peppermint had lead them through a dark hallway, and then into a small examination room, which is where they are now.

Trixie’s laying back on the medical bench bouncing her leg.

The day prior, Peppermint had texted Katya reminding her that Trixie had to chug like two cups of water an hour before the appointment so that she showed up with a full bladder that would be visible in the sonogram, and Katya literally hasn’t heard the end of it the whole walk over.  Little complaints of ‘I’m dying’ and ‘is this even necessary’ ( _no you’re not, and yes it is, respectively_ ).

She’s already changed into a hospital gown.  It’s weirdly cute; blue and pale against her tan skin.  There’s a second blanket laid over her lap, that’s been pulled down just far enough to expose her stomach.

Katya feels dizzy.  

Being in the hospital setting makes it so much more real, the fact that they truly are dealing with this.  It makes her think of how many more doctors appointments they’d have to swing if they can’t get an abortion.  All the different ways Trixie would be put through the ringer, poked and prodded at, reshaped and split open. And then all they get out of it is a fucking eighteen-year financial and emotional commitment they didn’t want in the first place.

“How are you doing?”  Peppermint asks Trixie, knowingly, as she takes this ketchup-bottle looking thing and squeezes out a spiral of clear lube stuff onto Trixie’s belly.

“I’m literally gonna’ fucking piss myself.”  

Katya nudges her.  She’d already told Trixie how important it was that they didn’t do anything to make this even harder on Peppermint, seeing as she was going so far out of her way to help.  

“I mean, I feel fantastic.”  Trixie says, plastering an overly-enthusiastic smile on her face and giving Peppermint a thumbs up.

“I know it sucks.”  Peppermint laughs, “I’ll keep this really quick, okay?”

The monitor pops and hums as it turns on.  The screen is blue for a moment, and then just grey mushy shapes, as Peppermint starts spreading the clear goop over Trixie’s stomach using an oblong object.  Katya’s gripping onto the edge of the table till her knuckles are white, but nobody notices. Trixie whines at the pressure.

They’re all looking at the screen now.  

It’s stupid, because to Trixie and herself, it all just looks like a rorschach test.  But Peppermint keeps clicking this button that pauses the screen, and using the keypad to place these red circles different places on the image, and it’s making Katya more and more on edge the longer she stays silent.  The more keys she clicks, and the more she moves the sensor all over Trixie’s abdomen.

Finally, Peppermint freezes the last frame, and sets the sensor down.

“Do you want to use the bathroom before I talk to you guys?”

“Yes please.”  Trixie groans.

Katya wants to know _now_.  She wants to know right now exactly what they’re looking at on that grimy monitor, the identification of each strange shape, so that she can start getting her game plan together.  She stays quiet as Trixie hops down off the medical bench with a gasp and scurries out the door.

Alone in the room with Peppermint, Katya exhales.

Peppermint is cleaning gel off the sensor, but she looks Katya up and down with an expression of sympathy and pity.

“Holding up?”

“More like holding my fucking lunch down.”  Katya says, although a bit overly-dramatic. “How long till an abortion isn’t an option?”  

“Twelve weeks in California.”  Peppermint says, then adds “That’s a little under three months.”

 _And how far along is she?_  Katya bites her tongue to keep from asking.  

“Has this ever happened to anyone you’ve treated before?”  Katya asks.

“What, a woman getting someone pregnant?”  Katya nods, “Not in my practice. Usually it’s the opposite problem.  I’ve given people lower and lower doses of estrogen when they’re trying to conceive, and even then, nothing.”

Katya sighs.

“Well shouldn’t I feel special.”  

Trixie opens the door with a small click and walks back into the room.  She has flats on, so she stands one inch shorter than Katya, and places both her hands down on the edge of the medical table like she means business.  The hospital gown isn’t honestly that different from the shit she wears sometimes. Nightgowns to a nightclub, and swimsuit coverups to a nice dinner. Katya refrains from telling her because it’s just not the time.

“Okay, let’s hear it.”  Trixie says decidedly.

The abstract grey image is still up on the screen.  Peppermint gives it another once-over and then taps at this small grey dot.  

“Well, it looks like you’re about nine weeks along.”  Peppermint says, “That’s the fetus. It’s about the size of a grape right now.  Everything's normal, it’s not ectopic and I don’t see any abnormalities.”

Three weeks.  That’s all Katya hears.

They have three weeks to get this thing out of her.

Trixie just nods and stares at the screen, until Peppermint asks them if they want a print-out, and they both simultaneously say no.  

 

~

 

They walk home together.

It’s a nice night.  Just warm enough that you don’t need to sport a jacket even after the sun goes down, and Katya makes sure they take all the right turns so that they don’t walk down unfortunate streets.  Staying smart. Staying near restaurants and boutique shops and small crowds. She has her arm around Trixie, but she’s holding her loosely, half-hearted.

Katya’s been trying to think back to nine weeks ago.  It doesn’t matter either way, but she’s curious as to which fuck was the fuck that actually made it happen.  She remembers doing Trixie on the kitchen counter before work back in April, and showing up late to the costume shop with her lipstick smudged.  And she remembers the time after that, couldn’t have been more than a few days later, when Trixie had wanted to switch it up and fuck Katya with her strapon, and had _so much fun_ she just had to get Katya hard for round two and ride her, pinning Katya’s hands down above her head.  

_Hope it was worth it, Barbara._

“Even if we didn’t spend any money from now on—and that’s a _big_ fucking if, because we have to eat—after rent we won’t have enough.”

Trixie’s brain is in overdrive.  She’s been babbling all the way home trying to do the math, even though they both come up short every time.  She’s right. Just with their paychecks alone, rent will empty their pockets by the time three weeks is up. Meanwhile Katya’s being quiet, because she has suggestions, just nothing Trixie actually wants to hear.

Violet had once asked her why she didn’t try harder to get rid of her dick.  She’d asked flat-out, because Violet was the success story in that department.  One of the old rich fucks who used to pay her to step on his withered ballsack had coughed up forty grand for her vaginoplasty, and then a follow-up labiaplasty, all just because she looked him square in the eye and said _fucker, you’re gonna put your money to good use for once in your pathetic life and buy me a pussy_.

At least, that was Violet’s version of the story.

Katya hadn’t tried so hard precisely because of this situation they’re in now.  Because when the chips are down, anyone who would pay good money to fuck her would be straight up disappointed if they figured out she had nothing scandalous between her legs.  Because that’s her version of a backup plan. Because that’s just the good old word they live in.

“I can get the money.”  Katya says.

She already knows it’s useless.

Trixie stops in the middle of the sidewalk.  

Across the street, some guy is playing saxophone for a crowd.  Slow and meandering, competing with the chatter pouring out of every bar that has it’s windows open.  The sky isn’t dark yet, but all the street lights are being turned on one by one. Katya wishes more than anything they could just stop at a bar and do shots till they woke up and realized it was all a long vivid nightmare.  A group hallucination, if you will.

“No.”  Trixie says, her face going all stoic,  “You’re not doing that. It’s not... it’s not worth it.”

Katya thinks it would be kinda’ worth it.

“Isn’t it?”

“ _No_.”  Trixie says again,  “I don’t wanna think about that shit.  God, this situation is fucked up enough as it is.  Can’t you just ask Violet to give you some money?”

They probably look like a petty bickering couple to everyone else.  All the people passing by on the street trying to get to their destination, a bar, or somebody’s house party.   

Katya doesn’t want to ask Violet.  She has enough of a superiority complex as is, and Katya knows that she only pretends to have endless amounts of money.  In reality, she’s budgeting, and hustling, and checking her bank account balance maybe more often than Katya is. Running a business on your own sweat, blood, tears, and pussy juice is no small task.  

“Yeah, I’ll ask her.”

 

~

 

When they finally make it home, Trixie takes a shower to wash off all the sweat that collected on her body during the walk, as well as lingering traces of the sonogram gel.  They need to make dinner, but Katya knows they’ll end up eating ramen and toast, or something equally low-effort. Neither of them are good in the kitchen.

While Trixie showers, Katya leans her head out their living room window and sparks up a cigarette.  She’s lost track of counting how many she’s started smoking per day. At least half a pack, which, she tells herself, is better than a whole pack, so she doesn’t need to worry.  It gives her an excuse to linger in the warm blanket that is every single hot summer night.

 _It’s not time to panic yet._   _You can hold on for three weeks._

The shower, in the back of the apartment, shuts off.  The pipes moan. Trixie’s blow-dryer begins to whirr. A dog barks around the corner.

_You can make this right, suka._

_Whatever it takes._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depictions of graphic assault in this chapt. so please be careful. I promise it will get better for them but it really ... does get worse before it gets better.

“Do you even know how much a wedding costs?”

Violet’s kitchen is a mess.  Normally she’s particular about her loft looking straight out of a modern homes catalogue doing a special edition on fetishists and their living spaces, but right now, that’s slipping.  It’s obvious she hasn’t had time to deep clean since the party. In amongst all her shiny kitchenwares, there’s empty cocktail glasses with the lemon wedges crushed inside resting on every surface, and half-eaten chocolate dipped strawberries.   _God_ , the party had been old fashioned fun.  It’s a crying shame that it had to end with Katya having a small reality break out front, thinking about her girlfriend being all ‘with child’ and everything, and not how she’d hoped it would end, which was schmoozing Trixie into having a foursome with the happy brides-to-be.  Katya’s still holding out for the day that she can get Trixie and Fame to give each-other, at the very least, a small kiss on the lips, even though it seems a hell of a lot less likely now.

Katya’s sitting on one of Violet’s unwelcoming metal stools.  They’re drinking coffee. Hanging out while the sun’s up, because miraculously, neither of them work a morning.  

“Not at all.”  Katya says.

Violet’s dressed down.  Flowy slacks and a tank top, hair all messy and unstraightened—being in love really has changed her.  The light filtering in from outside makes the whole kitchen glow yellow, bringing out the little beauty marks and sparse freckles on her skin.  She’s still making her own espresso, and banging on the machine whenever it starts to whistle or sputter.

“It’s a lot.  It’s a fucking _lot_.  And Fame, she wants all this elaborate stuff… her family’s old money, I should’ve seen it coming.”

“And they aren’t shelling anything out?”  Katya asks.

“They don’t want anything to do with her.  Big on reputation, not exactly happy about the marriage to…”  Violet gestures to herself. “...all this.”

There’s no self-judgement in her tone.  Like she’s saying it’s their shortcomings, and not her own, that caused the distaste.  Katya wonders what fucking magic lamp she rubbed to get all that confidence, and if she still has it lying around somewhere.  The green light on Violet’s espresso machine finally blinks on, and she removes the shot glass, dumping it into a cup she’s already filled with ice, milk, and a splash of Baileys.

“If I had anything, you know I’d help you.”  Violet sits across from Katya at the counter.  “I’m running on credit card debt and shit I can take out of the company account without Tatianna cutting my legs off.”

Katya already knew this was the answer even before she asked to sit down with her.  She’s been close enough to Violet’s company to know that summer is the worst season for PVRTS, financially, and that whatever the company makes she has to split with all the shareholders anyways.  

When Violet leans forward on her seat, the low-hanging armpits of her tank top fall loose enough that Katya catches sight of one of her tits, with a silver metal ring hanging from the nipple.  

_Good morning to you, too._

“I still can’t believe you’re settling down.”  Katya says.

“I’m not settling down.”  Violet takes a sip of her coffee, “Just getting married.”

“Same ball different chain.”  

Violet and Fame’s relationship had come out of nowhere.  One day Fame was coming in for routine lip fillers because her old plastic shop had been busted for tax fraud, and the next, they were almost attached at the hip.  Planning weekends on the Seattle coast, and playing footsie at parties. All that disgusting couple shit.

And honestly? Katya gets it.

Her and Trixie hadn’t been the same way, not exactly.  They’d spent about two months just fucking before they dared to whip out the dating word, and even then, it was touch and go.  But Katya remembers being enchanted with Trixie at first sight. Sitting in the green room looking like a goddamn blow-up doll with her big pink lips and surprisingly-not-fake tits.

“It’s not.  Fame lets me do whatever I want, that’s why I love her.” Violet shrugs.

Katya wrinkles her nose.

“ _Ugh._  Who are you?”

“Happy, you fucking hag.”

The way she and Trixie live already feels about as close to settling as Katya ever wants to get.  When they first decided to move in together, it had made her nervous. Surely, close proximity would be the straw that broke the camel’s back; that Katya would finally scare her away with all her antics.  Katya was obsessive about her studio space, talked in her sleep—sometimes even walked—and absolutely sucked ass when it came to keeping a kitchen clean. Still, Trixie wanted to deal with it. She left the studio alone, and slept with earplugs in, and yelled at Katya when the dishes piled up.  

Katya takes another sip of coffee and rests her her forehead on her palm.

She has no right, she knows, to claim that this is the most stressed out she’s ever been.  Not when she’s quite literally clawed her way out of house and home, surfed couches, hung out on corners until she could scrounge up dinner money.

If anything, her low point should be right around her senior year in highschool, when old man Zamo himself had found a bundle of dollar store cosmetics and goodwill dresses stuffed into the back of her closet.  She’d come home from school to him sitting at the dining room table gripping a half-downed bottle of Ruskova.

“Tell me this is a fucking joke, Dimitri.”  He’d had it all splayed out on the table, all the clothes she cared about, everything in the world that made her feel like a real person.  She’d watched helplessly as he uncapped the vodka, leaned forward, poured out the equivalent of a few heavy-handed shots onto the fabric. _“Grebanyy pedik_ ”.

He was red-blooded through and through.  The type to fire a gun into the air when he found out that his wife was giving birth to a boy.  Katya had never met Svetlana, she died a few hours after Katya had been born, on a living room couch with nothing but a hot water bottle and a ratty blanket.  Still, she likes to imagine that Svet would have been okay with having a daughter. That she would’ve stopped Katya’s father from dropping a lit match down onto her alcohol-soaked clothes, the flames blistering over the table like they were about to roast marshmallows.

Those years were something she survived.  But now, the thought of actually being responsible for a tiny helpless stupid worm of a human being, giving up sanity and freedom, having to clean shit off diapers and feel unconditional love despite it all, for the rest of her _life?_  

That’s worse.  

It’s sick, but for her, that’s worse.

“Violet, a _baby_?  I can’t...”

There’s a heavy silence in the loft.  She hears Violet tapping her thick nails against the counter.

“That’s tough.”  She agrees, “Couldn’t you give it away once she has it?”

Katya’s thought about that.  In-depth actually, but there’s one key reason it won’t work, and it never will.

“Have you even _met_ Trixie?”  Katya lifts her head,  “If this keeps on much longer, she’s gonna see an ultrasound where it has feet or whatever and lose her mind.  She’d never give it away, she’s too touchy-feely.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”  Violet nods. She tips back the rest of her drink, and then reaches into the middle of the counter, where the bottle of Baileys is still miraculously half-full.  It makes a grinding noise as she slides it towards Katya. “Guess that’s what you get for not dating a cold hearted bitch.”

“Well, we can’t all be as lucky as Fame.”

Violet plays like she’s going to give Katya a slap, who’s too busy taking a swig out of the bottle to notice.

 

~

 

Katya picks up her modest paycheck from Jean-Claude and deposits it into the bank immediately.  Combined, the two of them she gets every month total out to about seven hundred, give or take. Usually take.  It’s enough to cover her half of the rent, utilities, and food. A few nights of fun, maybe. She doesn’t have the ‘just got paid’ in her step this time around, though.  She’s thinking about their rent, and she’s thinking about the clinics, and moreover, she’s thinking about the weekend.

It’s the third Friday of the month, which means she’s opening for the ever-charming Mrs. Kasha Davis, at what she likes to think of as a halfway-decent regular gig.  Katya had met him at the costume shop, when he was buying this ugly-as-sin green sequin dress, and they’d sparked up a conversation about grifters and bachelorettes.

Katya’s eager to hit pause on the chaos of her life for a night.  Perform through the troubles. Strange as it sounds, thrusting her hips into a stranger's face and tasting the sour dollar bills has always relaxed her.  Plus the booking payout is somewhere around thirty dollars, not including tips, which she figures she can pour directly into her brand new super-secret coathanger fund.

On the way home, she stops at the corner store and buys Trixie a three dollar box of chocolates.  It’s unnecessary, but the small things help, and she knows that she needs to distract Trixie if she’s going to sell her lie well enough.  Make it seem like swiping her card doesn’t make her blood pressure go through the roof. Make it seem like Violet had eight hundred or so dollars just laying around in her panty drawer.

She sets the box out on the dining room table.  

Trixie works until nine, and in the meantime, Katya finds shit to do.

She starts by changing into one of her old baggy t-shirts and mixing up a batch of bleach.  Her roots are way overdue for a touch-up, growing embarrassingly dirty blonde, even bordering on brown.  While she sits on the living room floor on a towel, brushing it into her hair slowly in the mirror, she spins a few songs Trixie always gives her shit for.  Stuff by Strelki, and Fabrika, who coincidentally have one band member named Katya, and two named Sasha. 

_Never underestimate the creativity of communists, ladies and gentlemen._

Choosing the name Katya for herself had been breezy.  Her mother was originally from Yekaterinburg.  Katya had grown up looking at dusty photo albums of her posing in different places in the city, which was infinitely more beautiful than American cities, and always found herself wondering if she ever had any girl names in mind when she was pregnant.  Petrovna was a little less sentimental. It was the middle name of several old-timey Romanovs that she’d done reports on in grade school, and it simultaneously made her sound like an old beet farmer to Americans, hence the affinity.

Katya still has a photo of her mother pinned above the desk in her studio.  

In it, she’s wearing this dreary gown and headscarf, but holding two sunflowers that stretch up taller than her head, and beaming in front of the Alexander Nevskiy Cathedral.  

She looks happy.

It’s nice to imagine that, for most of her life, she had been happy.

By the time Trixie makes it home, Katya’s washed out her hair.  She’s got it up in a massive clip that chomps down on her curls like they’re spaghetti, which is fitting, since she’s bleached them the approximate color of cooked pasta.

Trixie looks worse for wear.  Squeezing through the front door like she's coming in from a storm, with her work apron in hand.  Her curls are coming undone, and her shirt is unbuttoned as far as it’ll go without showing bra.  A meager attempt to catch the breeze; working on your feet and then walking home will do that to you.  

Katya’s been studying her stomach, trying to see if her clothes are fitting any tighter, but she thinks it’s in her imagination.  Trixie’s always had a bit of a belly. Katya loves to bite at it, squeeze it during sex, leave small marks on it when they’re in the shower together.  It’s only in the past week she’s stopped.

“Hey!”  Katya calls out from her perch on the bed, her laptop paused in the middle of a bleak episode of the Twilight Zone, something about the Civil War featuring the pensive ghost of Abraham Lincoln, not that she was paying too much attention, “There’s chocolates on the table for you.  I asked if they had any ‘sorry I knocked you up’ cards, but they were fresh out.”

Trixie kicks off her heels violently in the kitchen and Katya catches sight of the little smile that comes to her face.

“Maybe you can get someone to put that on a cake.”  

She pads into the dining room and snatches the box off the table.

Inside, there’s three little truffles.  She tears the plastic off with fervor as she sits on the edge of the bed and pulls one out between her two fingers.  It coats them in brown dust immediately, little bits of cocoa falling against the white comforter, and her thighs. Trixie takes a small bite, and asks with her mouth full, “What did Violet say?”

“She’s gonna check on Monday, see if she can pull something out of the business.  But she thinks it’ll work.”

Lying to Trixie feels like shit.  It feels like she’s slapping her on the face, but years down the line, Katya knows, this whole situation will be something they can laugh at.  Oh, she can picture it now. Gathered around a table in an apartment that’s just a little less shitty than their current one, dinner made, drinking glasses of red wine, and saying _remember when we almost had a kid?  What a fucking nightmare._

That can be their life, if they play their cards right.  And Katya would like to consider herself a bitch with a mediocre hand and an impeccable poker face.

“That’s good.”  Trixie mumbles, stuffing a second chocolate into her mouth.  Then, she hums, like she just remembered something, “You’ve got a show tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah.  I’ve been working on a new costume actually, it’s a dress made up entirely of pictures of Gary Busey smiling.”  Katya smiles, laughs at herself a little, at the way Trixie wrinkles her nose, “You’re gonna hate it.”

“I already hate it.”  Trixie promises her. She places the last chocolate in her mouth, and sucks the dust off her fingers languidly.  Then, she flops back down onto the mattress. The motion tugs the hem of her shirt out of her skirt, the skin underneath her bellybutton poking out.  Trixie’s fingers wander down towards it, two of them, pressing. “I think I can feel my uterus getting bigger.”

“No shit?”  Katya asks.

“Yeah.  I read something online that you can kind of feel it, after nine weeks.”

Just hearing it makes Katya want to take a smoke break.  She sets her computer down on the bed, leaving a geometric red imprint on her legs, and unclips her hair so that it all falls out around her shoulders.  

“Baby, do me a favor and stay off WebMD.”  She crawls over Trixie’s body, warm from the outdoors, and flicks her tongue out over the corner of Trixie’s mouth where a small chocolate stain lingers against pink lipstick. “Half the shit on there’s just Big Pharma preying on your weak wills.”

Trixie smiles softly at that.  One by one, she starts undoing the buttons on her shirt.  Underneath, her skin is pink and glistening with sweat, red in the places where her bra has dug into her chest.

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”  Katya asks.

She aims for casual, but knows that there’s a twinge of fear in the back of her throat that she just can’t choke down.

“No.”  Trixie says.  She pulls the hem of her shirt the rest of the way out of her skirt, balls it up, and throws it across the room.  “Not at all, actually. I keep expecting some kind of primal mom energy to wash over me but then it just doesn’t happen.”

“Well, good.  You can barely take care of yourself, and you’re the biggest baby I know.”

Trixie shoves her shoulder, but weakly, like she’s tired.  Katya’s tired too.

Trixie suggests trying to cook dinner, but after looking in the cabinets for a few minutes, they order a pizza.  Katya makes Trixie watch the rest of the Twilight Zone episode, even though she hates that it’s in black and white.  Outside their window, the actualities of the neighbourhood resound off their thin walls, with little cracks in them from previous low-magnitude tremors that jostled the foundation of the apartment complex.  

She imagines, brain meandering aimlessly for a moment, what it might be like to push a stroller down these streets.  How the tiny plastic wheels would bang against every jutting piece of concrete and discarded hypodermic needle. How an empty construction lot with a hole wire-cut into the fencing would double as a playground.  

She imagines giving a child an even shittier upbringing than her own.

~

 

While Katya’s sure the Busey dress would’ve been a real hit with the crowd, it stays half-sewn half hot-glued to her mannequin on Friday night.  No need to go upstaging Mrs. Davis like that. When Katya had first performed with him, he’d asked—wig off, unblended contour up to his ears—why Katya was always an opener.  “You’ve got some headliner moves on you.  After you go on I’m about to look like an out-of-shape Steve Jobs squeezed into a prom dress.”

“Living Steve Jobs, or dead?”

“Definitely dead.”

Katya doesn’t complain about it much, because complaining does fuck all, but she knows the reason she was never able to quite muscle through that obscure bubble of art-drag and into the group of girls who actually got paid was simply because she was, in fact, a woman. _Hilarious, right?_ An entire phenomena dedicated to celebrating the essence of girlishness, all things effete and bedazzled, but the second the club turns on it’s lights, and everyone packs up their makeup bags, and you’re still lookin’ like a lady?  It’s hit the road, Jack.

Many a green room Katya has wallowed in had been soaked in this locker room air of competition.  Just a little playful misogyny hiding under all the wigs and fake lashes, like yes, we’re here to look like women, but thank _God_ we’re not women.  Katya can’t even count on all her hands, toes, and other semi-functional appendages the amount of gagging noises she’s received, when she mentions that she likes to bed down with a real-live female every night.

Kasha never bought into it, though, and that’s why Katya still performs with him.

She doesn’t tell anyone about the pregnancy.  At this point, it’s just Kim, Dr. Moore, and Violet who know, and she’s prepared to keep it that way.  Katya already feels like enough of a freakshow just going about her day-to-day life.

And on the topic of freakshows... opening for Kasha goes off without a _hitch,_ mama.  

The bar is packed, and the crowd rancid, rowdy, ready to spend their hard-earned bills.  She performs to American Boy by Kombinaciya, and for her second act, a morose note, Video Games.  

Trixie usually doesn’t come to her shows, and when she does, sits all the way in the back like a secret admirer, or a groupie.  It’s because she knows Katya likes to flirt with the audience. Likes to make em’ all feel like if they just grow a big enough pair of balls to talk to her after the show, she’ll be in their arms for the unbeatable price of a free drink, and maybe a taxi ride home afterwards.

They used to be half-right, too.

Nowadays she flirts with the crowd because one, it’s fucking fun, and two, money.  Plain and simple. If someone will give her a few extra dollars for flicking her tongue and batting her eyelashes, she’ll do it.  Fucking go to town in some drunk college boy’s lap, or kneel down in front of a butch girl sporting a bro-tank and a baseball hat.  

After the final act, Katya stays with Kasha while he takes off his makeup.

Post-performance, he’s just Ed, prepping to return home to a husband and their year-long attempt to adopt a second child.  And hey, maybe if things go south and Katya ends up with a spare kiddo lying around the shack… she’s _kidding_.  Mostly kidding.  

Katya supposes she doesn’t look a whole lot different, herself, after a show.  She usually just rips her eyelashes off and changes into boots, but this time around, she didn’t bring a change of shoes.  Just her thigh-high stilettos that make her feet go numb after the first hour.

“You’re going home like that?”  Ed asks her.

_Oh, looks bad, doesn’t it?_

“Yeah, I’m gonna see if my girl’s still up, give her a private show if you know what I mean.”  She winks at Ed, as he rolls his eyes, then adds, “Fucking. I’m gonna fuck her.”

“I got it, honey.”  Ed says exasperated.  The traces of mascara that a makeup wipe just couldn’t clear make him look like he hasn’t slept in a week, combined with the fact that his after-show attire is serving English teacher meets accountant on casual Friday.

“Oh, what, don’t tell me you don’t have any love left for mister Davis?”  Katya asks.

She’s pulling her small jacket on over her shoulders, over the black-and-white checkered dress she’d sported onstage, paired with elbow-length gloves and a tuck so tight she could practically feel it in the back of her throat.

“Plenty, if I don’t fall asleep in the cab on the way home.”

Katya laughs under her breath.  

“Well, the best of luck to ya’.”  She blows him a kiss with her torso halfway out the door.

So many of the people she meets at shows are down on their luck.  Struggling to make rent, thrown out of their childhood home, checking the dumpsters behind the mall for a bundle of landfill-bound unpurchased clearance dresses.  It’s refreshing to talk to Kasha. Refreshing to know that at least some of them, no matter how few and far inbetween, have made it. House, spouse, and white picket fence included with the price of admission.  

Katya’s certainly still on the far side of the successful versus unsuccessful divide, but she likes to think that she’s on the right track.  Even if the aforementioned track is, presently, taking a shortcut through a strange and formidable neck of the woods.

The lights in the bar come on right before Katya makes it to the front door.  The bartender says goodbye to her by name, and she pauses to tug a five out of her purse and set it on the table for him.  

Stepping outside the club feels like stepping into the past; shaking hands with a part of herself she left buried in the gutter, or forgot in the backseat of someone’s Buick underneath week-old McDonalds wrappers and empty cans of beer.

She bums a cigarette from the bouncer, who asks if he can call her a cab.

“Because I’m so defenseless.”  She mumbles around the filter, sparking it with a borrowed zippo donning a playboy bunny bending forward and looking over her shoulder.

The bouncer is a young guy, no more than thirty, and Katya’s on the fence as to whether he’s flirting, or just being helpful.  She hands him back the lighter. He gives her a nod, but then whips his head around as a glass shatters over the edge of one of the outside tables belonging to a customer who _really_ doesn’t want to get out of his chair.

“Bar’s closed, pack it up.”  He says gruffly, and starts towards the table, as Katya gently places the zippo on the windowsill next to where he’d been standing.  

And with that, Katya begins walking.

The first block is well-lit.  There’s a humming deep in her ears, like all the sounds of the city combined into one single note.  High pitched tire squeaks and low droning street cleaners, a few stray cats seeking out a mate, or the paper-thin echo that emerges from alleyways, ones that double as lowlife conference rooms.  The om of Los Angeles

If she was trying to make her way home quickly, she would be wearing her long coat and tennis shoes.  Keeping to only the central streets until she finally wound up back at her and Trixie’s small home.

It sounds good.  

The warm sheets, Trixie’s shallow breathing.  The way a faint wind will sometimes pour through the window, and Trixie—bless her, even in the middle of summer—with scoot back against Katya like she’s cold.

Katya makes it five blocks, each decreasing in brightness until she feels like she’s in the deep-sea of neighborhoods, with large angler fish street lamps and plastic bag corals crowding the thoroughfare, before she hears the crumbling of tires slowing down next to the curb, and the single bump of a horn.

It’s kind of a negative testament to humanity how easy this is.

The car is black, which immediately gives her pause.  Could be a cop, but the windows aren’t tinted, and inside she can see a few papers stacked up next to the back window indicating messiness and casualty.  

It used to be that when she would talk to men in this context, she would lay on the thickest Russian accent she possibly could.  Make out like she didn’t speak English very well, so that they would have no chance to get to know the first thing about her. Sometimes they asked her to speak in Russian during, to which she would respond by reciting the first six sentences of the communist manifesto, all while they would unwittingly whisper _yeah, baby_ and _just like that_.

It was funny.  

The way men would lose all their mind around a girl, thick-tongued and hot under the collar, it was _funny_ to her.  It made her feel strong, that at the end of the night, she walked away up some hundred bucks, and they walked away feeling guilty, and alone.  

Different things started making her feel strong after she met Trixie.

She puts a pleasant smile on her face as she clicks her way to the edge of the curb, and he rolls down the window.  Just some white guy in his thirties, not in terrible shape, sporting an ultimately forgettable flannel and jeans combo.  It doesn’t make a difference how he looks either way, seeing as she likes women, but of course, this isn’t about liking anyone.  

“Hey!”  She folds her arms on his open window.  The exterior is still warm from the blistering day, like heat waves might still be radiating off it.  Up-close she realizes that it’s not actually black, just dark blue, “How’s it going?”

“Fine.”  He unlocks the doors.  The click echos through the emptiness of the block, bouncing against every shanty storefront and boarded up window.  “Wanna hop in?”

_Oh, would love nothing more._

As Katya opens the door, she steps lightly over the gap and into the passenger seat.  The puddles of spilled beer and backlogged water from the clogged gutters poorly reflect the moon overhead, half-full, and no stars peeking through the smog.  The floor inside is clean, but there’s a host of receipts stuffed into the change bin, and the glove compartment is hanging half off its hinges.

The car isn’t old, just beat up.  

Katya can hear Trixie’s voice in the back of her head asking _oh, honey, are you talking about the car, or me, honey?_

It makes her feel ill.  Just a little bit.

“How much is it?”  He asks.

The hand that he doesn’t have on the wheel is hanging outside, letting a cigarette burn into the sweltering air.  

She’s going out on a limb with this one.  Really taking a shot in the dark, but there’s no way she’s about to pull an odd twenty cheap car tricks to get what she needs.  Absolutely _fuck_ that.  If this is going to work out the way she’s rehearsed it in her head, she needs things to move fast, and furiously.

“Hundred if you want to stay in the car, three if you want to go to a motel.”  

It’s more than anyone’s ever given her before.

“Why so pricey?”

And yet.

“Because I’m very beautiful.”  She says matter of factly.

He stares ahead at the road.  At the cars speeding along the strip of pavement, their brake lights filling his glassed-over eyes with red, like blood moons.  

For a second, she thinks he’s about to barter, like they’re at a fucking swap meet.   _I was thinking more along the lines of fifty, and we fuck in the backseat._

But then he pulls the gear stick into drive.

“Christ… the economy really is in the shitter.”  He mumbles under his breath, and flicks his cigarette out the window.  “You are hot, though, I’ll give you that.”

“Mhmm.”  Katya hums, slowly rubbing her index fingernail back and forth over a fabric snag on the hem of her dress.  “Devastatingly so.”

He starts up the engine and peels out into the street.

As they drive, Katya directs him to take a left towards a pay-per-hour motel.  She hates that she knows exactly where it is, and she hates that she knows they charge nine dollars and twenty cents per sixty minutes, and that they still have those beds, with the coin-inserts that make them vibrate, and sheets the color of smashed peas.

He pays for two hours, even though he has to know that Katya will leave after one.  Less, if she does her job right. She hangs back away from the teller window finishing a cigarette he gave her, but she hears him ask for it, and hears the clinking of the keys as they’re handed over connected to a plastic medallion through the small iron bars of the pass-through in counter.

They’re on the lower floor.  Katya follows him across the fractured parking lot, populated with badly-parked lemons, and motorbikes.  When they reach the door, she leans against the wall, as he wiggles the lock back and forth a few times.

“Is there something you want me to call you?”  She asks.

She expected to feel nerves.  Instead, she just feels impatient.  So long away from the world of putting a price tag on desire, and all she’s come to find is that men are still a complete and total bore, and that she hopes he’ll ask to shower first.

He gets the door open, and it squeals on its hinges.  Katya flicks her cigarette into the ground.

“How about we just go with John?”

_Creative._

“Sure thing.”  

Katya walks in after him, the room dark as he shuffles towards the bed and clicks on one of the side-table lamps.  Then, everything’s yellow and orange, shades of autumn that bounce rampantly off the off-white closed curtains over the window.

“Can I call you something?”  He sits down on the edge of the bed, and it groans under his weight.

“Petra.”  

A bastardization of her middle name.  And out of place, because she’s never used a fake name before, but it feels better here, knowing that she’s just a shadow of a shadow of herself, for sixty minutes, in a strange room.

“Like the city?”  He asks.

“Like the photographer.”

She’s thankful that he only turned on one bedside lamp.  It illuminates him from behind, so many of his facial features stay shadowy and indistinguishable.  He has this smug look on his face, what she can see of it, and he beckons her with one hand, tapping his knee like he wants her to sit in his lap.

“Come on, big guy, we’re all in a rush, but you know the drill.”  Katya flicks her hair over her shoulder so that she can shrug off her purse.  “Money on the table.”

She unzips her jacket; sets it on the desk near the door, which, she notes, doesn’t internally lock.  If she needs to, she can leave without the key.  She hears him click his tongue, but pull out a few bills and place them on the bedside table.

Her dress is low-cut enough that it shows off her cleavage.  Guys were always into that, the fact that she didn’t pad. Fed into their chicks with dicks fantasy, that she didn’t claim to understand, seeing as most of the men she was with had the luxury of returning home to a wife.   _Why waste time and money when you have a woman that loves you?_  It's enough for Katya.  

But clad in her skin-tight dress, and her boots, she switches off the part of her brain that deals with rationality.  The girlfriend part, the making pancakes with Trixie come valentines day morning part, and burning them, and eating ice cream for breakfast instead - that part.  She pushes it into the recesses of her body as she crosses that small distance, over the carpet that has more in common with a brillo pad, and sinks down onto his lap.  

He’s wearing some awful type of cologne.  Something that'll make her gag if she ever smells it again.  Her skirt hikes up over her hips as she settles each of her legs over him, and immediately he places a hand on her lower back, begins kissing the middle of her neck.  She knows he’s looking for an adams apple. Making sure that he’s getting his money’s worth, but her neck is smooth and her voice is ambiguously high. She can sense his confusion, too, fueling him to slide his hand up her thigh and between her legs.

He squeezes her roughly.  

She huffs out an annoyed breath.

“Jesus…”  He shakes his head under her chin,  “You really don’t look like a dude, you know that?  You’re fuckin’ pretty.”

Like it’s a compliment.

Katya closes her eyes and tries as best she can to summon up the mental image of Salma Hayek in From Dusk Till Dawn, all python-clad in her red bikini, just to try and combat the complete lack of interest she has in this whole encounter.  

She’s not about to fantasize about Trixie.  Not at a time like this.

He’s still grabbing at her through her underwear harsh enough that she sucks in a small breath of air.  

_Calm down, John, it’s not gonna goddamn disappear on you._

“What do you want?”  She asks, and rests her hands softly on his shoulders.

She doesn’t bother trying to read people and guess, because she’s usually wrong.  There is no type that people have. No warning signs or roadmaps towards the things that really rev their engine.  Deep down, unhinged, cash in hand, everyone is chaotic, unpredictable, and a little bit disgusting. That’s what Katya has known to be true.

His grip on her waist tightens.

“I wanna’ go down on you.”

Now that, she can work with.  Maybe. If he’s up for a few solid minutes of good old taffy pullin’.

She blinks her eyes open and glances lazily at the headboard over his broad shoulder.  Blackened wood, plagued with the eternal humidity of bodies, sparse mold creeping up like vines. And the pillows, airlocked under the covers, and uninviting.  She looks at the bedside table, too.  At the small pile of money underneath the lamp.

She counts with her eyes.

A few twenties—good start—but then a five, and underneath them, a one poking out.  

He drags her down hard against his lap, and the button on his jeans scrapes her inner thigh.

“Did you hear me?”  He asks.

She’s seen stacks of money in her life, and this one screams low-ball.

She pushes herself away from him by his shoulders, so she can get a good look at his face, which she now realizes is adorned with a spider web tattoo, beginning at the corner of his left eye, and disappearing under a sideburn.

“That’s not three hundred.”  She says firmly.

As she speaks, she feels his grip on her thigh tighten.

“Yeah it is.”  He replies.

There’s nothing in his tone to indicate sincerity.

Her heart does that instant double-beat, like when you finish doing a line, and suddenly you feel the need to stand up and dance, or punch something, or barrel through the streets like a bottlerocket.  She doesn’t even carry pepper spray, these days. It’s stupid, and sloppy. It’s asking to be backed into a corner.

“Then you won’t mind me counting it.”  Katya says dryly, now planting her feet on the ground and climbing off his lap.  He doesn’t grab her, just leans back on his hands like he’s waiting for something.  Like he knows what she doesn’t.

It’s unnerving.

“Go ahead.  I’m good for it.”  He nods towards the table.

It’s not exactly foreplay, but it’ll do.  

She walks the length of the bed and grabs the stack of money, shuffling the bills between her press-on fingernails.  

_Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty.  Two fives. No, three fives. So ninety five, and a few ones..._

Then, the telltale sting of your hair being pulled on.  

It’s like she’s in grade school, or something.  Like he’s sitting behind her in class. It drags her all the way down onto the bed, pain sharp against her scalp, knees buckling involuntarily as they bump the edge of the mattress, and then he’s on top of her with an arm pressed across her chest.

“You _wish_ you were worth three hundred.”  

The springs of the mattress toss them both up and down.  She’s ready to glare and bare her teeth, but he clasps a hand over her mouth.  Just firm enough that there’s not really any hope of biting it, and yet still, the sour taste of his skin finds a way to seep through her closed lips.

“I don’t know where you girls get off thinking you’re so fucking enchanting the rest of the world just can’t resist you, but it’s not like that.”  

 _Oh, tell me what it’s like, John._  

“You’re lucky I got anything for you at all.”

He’s looking at her one hundred and forty pound frame thinking that he can take her with deadweight.  And honestly, he’s right. If they truly wanted to brawl it out, he would win, but she has only this one moment—the small element of surprise—when he’s still hard off the power trip of screwing her over. When he’s still expecting her to panic. When there’s an ugly tent in his pants because he thinks he knows how the next hour is gonna go.

It’s this moment, and only this moment, that she jumps at, and shoves her knee between his legs.  Hard.  As hard as she can.  He’s strong, but she’s nimble, and has a few pounds of muscle to show for herself.  Immediately he grunts in pain, and she pulls her arm free to swing one solid punch.  It hits lands on his cheekbone, and partly on his nose.

Punches don’t sound like they do in the movies.  

It makes a dull slapping sound, and sends tendrils of pain shooting up her fingers like snakes.  It’s anticlimactic and awful, and she has no time to relish in the _fuck_ he cries out, and the flash of red above his mouth.

No time to relish at all; she’s _running_.  

Springing off the bed like she has wings on her feet and grabbing her purse from the corner of the room.  She hasn’t punched anyone like that in years, and it’s a dull ache that makes her wonder if she hurt herself more than she hurt him.  But he’s still doubled over on the bed, coughing out _fucking bitch_ as he struggles to get to his feet.

She knows that she should leave immediately, but you know what?  Nah.  The punch wasn’t enough. Not enough for her to feel a inch of satisfaction, and lord knows she deserves some goddamn satisfaction.

She shuffles forward, snatches the money off the ground where it lays crumpled next to him.  However much he shorted her, however much he was or wasn’t going to let her take home, she grabs it in her trembling bruised hand, and then she’s out the door.

_Fuck._

_If fresh air doesn’t heal all wounds..._

She hustles into the night, past the rows of motel doors, half of which are open, honey-colored light pouring onto the pavement in columbs.  All the unwitting Friday night patrons are too caught up in their own underpinnings to worry about some girl clicking her little heels as fast as she fucking can away from an hourly room.

There’s not a shred of sympathy available to her for blocks, and she knows it, and it keeps her walking until she’s sure that it’s brought her feet to blisters.

 

~

 

Katya catches a Taxi home.  

She zips her jacket up all the way, and pulls her hair back into a ponytail as she waits to flag one down, flipping off the few cars that try to slow their roll and cruise her.  She uses the dirty money, still a little damp from where she’d been clinging to it with sweat-soaked hands, but finally, she’s deposited back onto the curb outside the apartment complex.

It’s only standing outside of her own front door she takes a moment to breathe.

Her fingers are red.  Maybe on the verge of bruising, but no cuts.  She’ll explain it to Trixie by spinning some grandiose tale of a handstand gone wrong, and Trixie will laugh, and kiss her fingers, and tell her to be more careful, and everything will be fine.

_Everything will be fine._

_Nothing happened._

It’s four in the morning, so she opens their front door quietly.  

Inside, the fan is blowing on its highest setting, and the windows are open as far as they will go.  Trixie’s sleeping form, like a little renaissance painting caught up half in the sheets, arm dangling off the edge of the bed, tugs deep at her chest when she looks upon it.

She unzips her shoes quietly; slides her dress down her body, and balls it up, throws it into the laundry hamper among all the other clothes they’ve been avoiding.  She takes a moment in the bathroom to wipe off all her makeup, and brush her abused matted hair, that falls easily back into soft waves. She changes her underwear. Ends up trading the black silk panties for boyshorts, and slinking back to bed topless.

She lays her body down next to Trixie.  

Despite her desperate attempts to not make any noise, Trixie’s always been a light sleeper, and she shifts next to Katya minutely.

“Hey.”  Trixie sighs, thick and groggy.

It makes Katya want to cry.  

Truly and honestly, the sweetness of her voice, the way it dances around the empty night-bitten room.  It makes her feel the weight of all their life has become.

“Hey.”  She whispers back, facing the ceiling.

Trixie reaches out and winds her hand around Katya’s fingers.  The throbbing ones, not that she has any way of knowing. Katya bites back a wince.

“Thanks for talking to Violet earlier, by the way.”  Trixie’s mouth is half-pressed against the pillow, and it makes it sound like she’s slurring all her words,  “I know you hate asking her for stuff.”

_God._

“No problem.”  Katya has to force the words out of herself.

Trixie’s quiet a moment.  

Then, a gentle “I love you.”

Katya closes her eyes, vision already starting to blur, teeming with water that obscures all the shapes of their room, making it seem like an oil painting.

“I love you too.”  She nods, “Go back to sleep.”

She tries not to think about the deeper implications of her bad luck.  Sure, she could try it again, but coming home at four in the morning is something she can only do a handful of times before Trixie gets suspicious.  That, and the thought of getting into another car churns her stomach to the point of full-body repulsion.

So they don’t have the money.  So she’s … she’s fucking out of ideas.  Tapped out.

They didn’t make it, and unless they win the fucking lottery come two weeks time, they won’t have any choice but to deal with the fact that Trixie is, in fact, having a baby.

If she wasn’t so exhausted, the thought might have kept her up all night.


	6. Chapter 6

Trixie likes to tell people that she was born in a truck bed speeding down I-94.  Hospital-bound but ill-fated, cradled in a quilt and everything, as her father pulled off the side of the road and took a good look at her by dawn’s first light; all nine pounds of her.  Fat for a newborn. And she had been fat for a newborn, that part is true. But the whole truth is that she was delivered via cesarean at a Sacred Heart about two hours away from her hometown.  Her father wasn’t there. No way. Instead, her mother had lay on the hospital bed holding onto her sister’s hand, while the doctors made their swift cuts and clips, till they finally dug a small chubby Beatrice out of the folds of fat and gore.

It’s weird to think about being pregnant.  Most people presupposed she would fall victim to one of two extremes, staying true to the good old stereotypes of a country bumpkin.  Either knocked up by a manager at Cabela’s by the time she was nineteen, or they expected her to never have children, on account of the lesbianism, and general irresponsibility.  And for the past some, what, five, six years of her life?  She’d been thinking the exact same thing.  No way in hell, not Trixie, not her and her eccentric night owl not-a-maternal-bone-in-her-body girlfriend.

Come Monday, three weeks ago, Katya had told her that Violet couldn’t front the money.

_She’s in debt, Trix.  I’m sorry. I thought she had it._

In retrospect, she could’ve handled it better.  

It was a laborious and tense conversation, that involved Katya slowly and deliberately explaining how Violet’s income worked in relation to her business, and exactly why she didn’t have cash to spare.  She used the word ‘liquidity’ a lot. Like she’d done some googling before she broke the news.

“So she can buy her bitch a _diamond,_ but she can’t give you a couple hundred?”

“It’s cubic zirconia.”  Katya sighed, arms crossed over herself in the kitchen.

“What the _fuck_ ever.”

Trixie punctuated her little tantrum by slamming the fridge door so hard a box of cereal fell off the top, spilling in every direction across their neglected tiles, and that was the breaking point. She sunk to her knees and buried her face, beet red, in her hands.  Messy blonde hair hiding whatever her fingers couldn’t. She spent the following ten minutes sobbing on the floor surrounded by scattered cheerios while Katya held her.

“This is so scary.”  Trixie remembers mumbling into Katya’s shoulder.

It had been the evening, and the market next door was getting an admittedly late delivery from a fish truck, so the whole block smelled like it was soaked in brine and seaweed.  Nothing keeps to its own corners around them, not in this neighbourhood. If one person’s cooking, the entire complex smells it. If someone’s having an argument, everyone's walls reverberate with the noise.

“It is.”  Katya agreed.  “It is scary.”

She ran her hand gently up and down Trixie’s back.  Katya smelled like the stale dust from the costume shop and the dryer sheets they keep in the basement, and by the time Trixie stopped crying, her nose was so rubbed raw, and her eyes so puffy, she couldn’t even smell that anymore.  Katya had swept the kitchen while Trixie took a bath and stared petulantly at her stomach, blue-grey water swaying around her, as if she could will it away with a glare.

Trixie has no right to be angry at Violet for not having the money.  

For fucks sake, Violet doesn’t owe them anything.  After running in circles with Katya arguing about the details of someone else’s finances, Trixie realized that she was experiencing a misplaced anger.  Misplaced by about ten degrees. Her true anger just lies with the situation. Anger at the world for keeping her and Katya pinned down underneath the weight of money, money, always _money_.

It’s just difficult.  No other way to slice and dice it.  The weeks slipped by like they were minutes, and Trixie has been going to work every shift.  She’s no longer throwing up on her breaks, thankfully, but she’s started getting migraines, and dizzy spells, which aren’t super helpful when you work with sharp objects right next to people’s heads.  

She’s officially on the last legs of the first trimester, and hating every second of it.

She usually meets Katya at the apartment around dinner time, but they ghost around each-other like they’re roommates who just happen to be sharing a bed.  Trading kisses that last no longer than a few seconds, maybe a chaste squeeze on the shoulder.

They haven’t even had sex since Trixie found out she was pregnant.

It upsets her, really it does, but it’s also a mutual aversion.  Every time it seems like they’re on the brink of going there, she knows, they both just start thinking about the pregnancy, and how badly they need to be in a mad scramble to prepare for it, and then everything dissipates. Katya finds an excuse to go out.  Trixie finds an excuse to go to bed.

Trixie had actually been with Kim on the day when she legally was no longer allowed, within the state, to have an abortion.  

The twelve week marker.

They still do their Wednesday meetups, but they’ve stopped going to bars.  Instead either get cheap ramen, or just hang around Kim’s apartment painting their nails and barely-watching episodes of The Golden Girls.

“It doesn’t feel real.”  Trixie mused, turning side to side in Kim’s bedroom mirror.  It’s nothing major, but she does have a bump now. Her clothes fit tightly, and if it were the holidays she’d probably chalk it up to seasonal weight gain.  It helps that most the shit she wears is loose-fitting and shapeless. Nobody at work has asked any questions.

“Have you been talking about it?” Kim asked.

“Not really.”  Trixie said, “To be honest, I dunno what we’re gonna’ do.  Katya said I should chug Robitussin till I miscarry.”

“Oh my god, you’re not going to, are you?”

“No!”  Trixie groaned, sitting down on Kim’s floor, “I mean, probably not.”

Sick part is, she did consider all the things she could do to try and wiggle herself out of this particular sticky situation.  Just hit the liquor store and do shots until she passed out every night, or perhaps get Katya to give her a solid punch to the stomach once a day.  Give a whole new meaning to _hit me baby one more time!_ They were fleeting thoughts, half-serious and comical, but they kept her from dealing with the reality of the situation.  

And god, what a situation it was.  A true cloud of debris on the horizon churning faster, and faster, until you suddenly realize, dumbfounded and helpless, that your roof has been ripped off its hinges.

Trixie’s been checking online for job offers three times a day.  No matter what their plan is—keep the baby, give it up for adoption, sell it on the black market for organs—whatever.  They’ll need money to keep up with it. The medical expenses that Trixie will accrue, and all the things she’ll need to keep herself marginally comfortable while her ribcage gets pressed up into her throat, and her ankles swell up, and her tits somehow get bigger than they already are.

It’s slow going, but she’s confident that given the right interview, she can swing a slightly better paying job come the next few months.  It’s not like she’ll be rich, but everything helps. Every one dollar more per hour, every benefit and Christmas bonus. Anything.

This particular day, as Trixie gets ready for work, her head is pounding.  

Dull aches shoot down from the crown of her head to her spine, as she puts on her shoes (sneakers, because she’s not psychotic) in the living room next to their bed and rushes to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.  Katya’s working a morning at the shop, and had to leave half hour early to apparently assist Jean-Claude in unclogging his sink drain in the apartment upstairs.

“Isn’t that a little outside your job description?”  Trixie had asked.

“No, actually, I took this job hoping and praying that one day I would be able to be a French maid for an old queen.  I’m just missing the outfit.” Katya humed, and Trixie took a blissful moment out of her day to picture Katya in the little black dress, and the white apron, and the feather duster.  On hands and knees. Hair in a ponytail. _Nice,_  “Actually, we sell French maid outfits, I don’t know what I’m waiting for.”

“You, a French maid?  With that hangover?”

Katya beamed underneath her white-rimmed sunglasses, giving Trixie a thumbs up with both her fingernails painted bright red, and filed to a semi-point.

“I’m making this hangover work for me.”

Trixie’s essentially ready for the day, just needs to find her fucking work apron that she keeps taking home on accident.  She’s searched their entire closet, dresser, behind the couch and the floor of the bathroom, and is getting truly desperate when she starts rooting around under the bed.

She shudders at the dust that brushes her fingertips.  They haven’t vacuumed in a hot minute.  Lint balls are quilting underneath all their furniture.  She grasps around in the dark, until her hand smacks against something hard, and she pats what she suddenly realizes is a handle. Cold and synthetic.  

 _Oh.  Katya’s suitcase._  

Trixie was convinced that all their travel stuff was stashed away into their meager storage compartment in the basement, next to the complex laundry, that they always avoided going down to.  Too many drug deals took place underneath the building to make it worth visiting more than absolutely necessary, unless you were looking to have a really crazy weekend.

The suitcase grinds across the wood floor as she pushes it back into the empty space.  She’s trying hard to remember. _Had they planned a trip?  Where would they even go, and with what cash?_

She abandons underneath the bed in favor of checking the kitchen drawers, filled with useless twine and forgotten cooking utensils, where she finally, _finally,_ finds her apron folded up next to the dish towels.

Katya.  Must’ve been Katya, moving it around without telling her.

She shoves the work apron into her bag.  That’s pretty much all that’s been keeping her around the house, but something is still nagging at the back of her mind.  Muscling through the headache that makes every little pin drop sound like someone banging a drum, every tire screech outside the window a personal offense.  She really should get going, she’s due at work in half an hour, and it takes at least twenty minutes to walk there...

She returns to the living room.  

The suitcase squeaks petulantly as she pulls it out again, free of the bedskirt, and this time, flips open the latches and pushes the stiff beige halves open.

Inside, there’s a few things.

Clothes that could only belong to Katya.  Nobody else has such a striking mix of jet black and garish multicolor patterns that belong forgotten at the back of a Goodwill clearance wrack. There’s one of Katya’s favorite bras, with two bright blue eyes embroidered on mesh fabric to cover the nipples, a few of her dresses, two pairs of boots, as well as a small ziplock bag full of dishevelled makeup products.  

It’s weird.  

Trixie might go so far as to think it was the remnants of one of Katya’s spur of the moment ideas that she simply forgot about, but these are things she uses every day.  

So it’s just… weird.

A weirdness that follows her to work, even after she shoves the suitcase back underneath their bed and tries her best to dispel the feeling that something is about to go wrong.

“That’s weird, right?”  She’s been talking this poor woman’s ear off for twenty minutes now (but hey, hairdressers are supposed to strike up conversations) about the whole situation.  

“You never know, sweetie.  Could be nothing.” She’s giving a 60 year old a bob cut, and then the plan after that is to take her from a dull mixed-grey to platinum silver.  “Or it could be something.”

“Something?”

Trixie’s been groggy at work, no doubt due to the fact that she’s cut out caffeine.  Apparently, a 4-shot latte isn’t great fuel for a human being who’s still working on developing a brain and a nervous system; Kim had alerted her to that one.  But despite the brain-fog, anxiety pulses through her body at the thought of _something_.

“Something that takes you by surprise.”  The old woman kind of has a smoker voice, and it makes Trixie wonder what Katya will sound like in thirty years time, “I was with first my husband eighteen years, and one day, I come home from QFC and he’s up and gone with the car and my collection of antique quarters.”

“No way.  My dad did the same thing.”  Trixie mumbles, catching sight of the woman’s small eye-widen, “Kidding!  Totally kidding… I never had a dad.”

It’s one of those things that’s easy to snowball, when you’re oh so subtly a hormonal nervous wreck.  A tiny seed of worry planted at the back of your mind, that blooms bigger and bigger, until suddenly you have to focus all your energy into just thinking about anything else in the whole entire world.  But her and Katya are so in love. And so intertwined, financially. She wonders what she would do, without Katya there to pay half the rent, buy half the food, repair her clothes, keep one side of the bed warm... it downright sends a chill up her spine.

Trixie gets off work at nine.  

She walks home quickly, twisting the strap of her bag back and forth between her nails the whole way, like she’s trying to break it.

As she nears their apartment, far from the squeaky storefronts of the innermost city, she discovers that the block outside their complex is hosting some kind of dance-off spilling out of the Panaderia.  It closes firmly at five, but after-hours, serves only whoever knows the shop owners personally. It’s front doors are propped open, wafting the warm scent of powder-dusted Conchas set out in trays under the windows, and revealing an odd eight patrons sitting in metal folding chairs.

It’s warm, pleasant, lively.  Soaked in the lingering happiness of midsummer.

On a small square of wood, three young guys break to whatever comes up on the Latin radio.  They have this junky boom box, pulsating against the concrete. As Trixie passes, one of them falls out of his half-hearted shoulder spin, and laughs as he hits the ground.

_¡Guapa! ¡Que buena estas!_

It echoes through the intersection.  She doesn’t know what it means, but she gets the gist, so she throws up a peace sign, and watches the other two dancers pause their movements to laugh at her as well.

She unlocks the gate over their front door.  It gets stuck halfway, and she has to force it with her entire body weight, making it groan and smack against the wall.  As Trixie climbs their stairwell, the echo of the soft spanish beats can still be heard through the building, but mingling with new music now.  Something coming from her floor. As she nears, she realizes, a Russian guitar ballad. That weird foreign eighties shit that Katya likes.

As she pushes open the apartment door, she’s immediately hit with a wave of humidity that can only indicate a kitchen being used.  

Their kitchen.  

Being used.  

_Huh._

Just on the other side of the door, and through the main room, Katya’s standing in front of the stove.  It’s like passing through some kind of cosmic beaded curtain into a different reality; one where they have at least some of their shit together.  Katya’s done up in a maxi dress with her hair gathered messily on top of her head. One of her hands is wrapped around a wooden spoon, and the other is snapping along in time with the music.  

Katya looks up at Trixie, then, and her eyes go wide.

“Hey, baby!”  She waves Trixie over with a hand, and it’s all Trixie can do to hurry across their small apartment to her.  She tosses her bag on the bed as she goes, “Get over here, check this out.”

Inside the kitchen, the counters are splayed with vegetables and bottles of oil, knives and herbs squeezed in between a few used pots and pans.  It’s pleasantly messy. Reminds her of a heartwarming photograph you might find in a women’s magazine, or a cooking show pantry.

 _And tonight, all the way from Moscow, your hostess Katya will be demonstrating how to catch, slaughter, and cook your very own wild boar to absolute perfection._ _Naslazhdat'sya!_

“What’s all this?” Trixie asks.

“I’m cooking for you!”  

Katya says it proudly, and gestures to the kitchen like it’s her swan song of accomplishments.

Trixie frowns.

“Who are you and where’s my girlfriend?”

Katya snorts, rolling her eyes.

“Fuck you, seriously, I’m cooking for you.  This is me cooking. It’s _zelyoniye shchi_.”  

She says it like Trixie understands what the hell it means in English.  Some kind of soup recipe that she probably got off the internet, and not from her wealth of knowledge on Russian cuisine and culture, as she’ll absolutely claim.

“And it’s edible?”  Trixie asks.

“Only till I add the cyanide, Barbara.”  Katya dips the wooden spoon over the surface of the pot, scooping up a small pool of broth, and holds it out towards Trixie.  “Try.”

Trixie takes a few steps forward and grabs the spoon.  Blows on it once, to cool, and then takes a small sip. Surprisingly enough, it does, in fact, taste like food.  Warm and salty and decidedly vegetarian.

“This is good, actually.”  Trixie doesn’t pretend that she isn't shocked.  And of course, it’s not _great_ cooking, but it’s a far cry from the microwaved nachos or cup noodles that they’d usually be devouring come ten at night.

A real-life homemade meal.

“I know.”  Katya clasps her hands together, gleefully.  “God, I feel like such an adult right now.”

“Skills finally catching up to your age.”

Trixie hands Katya back the spoon, and then leans forward to give her a quick kiss on the lips.  She pushes up on her tiptoes just a little, and Katya’s hand drops down to grab her by the waist.

To any onlookers it might seem insignificant.  Of course you make your girlfriend dinner, and it’s not even a good dinner, just cabbage soup.  But Trixie knows how low-maintenance they both are, and the fact that Katya went out of her way to not only look up a recipe, but surely go to the corner store and spend money they don’t have on fresh vegetables, tired after a long work day, on sore feet - it _means_ something.  It’s a way of saying I love you that speaks just a little louder than the words themselves.

It almost has Trixie forgetting about the suitcase.  

Almost.

“Why don’t you hang out in the living room?”  Katya suggests, “Get changed, we can do dinner in bed.”

Trixie’s champing at the bit to put on something shapeless and pajama-like, ditch her sweaty work clothes, so she nods and makes her way into the main room, and into the small closet attached to it.  She undresses with the fervor of someone shucking corn, tossing all her work clothes into their hamper, as she pulls on a shirt dress instead.  After experiencing the euphoria of, at long last, removing her bra, she takes a moment in the bathroom to unclip and brush her hair.  It’s frizzy and wavy.  No doubt the fault of humidity, but she knows that Katya always digs it when she’s unkempt, and borderline feral.

When she emerges from the bathroom, Katya’s still in the kitchen, piling all the unused ingredients back into the fridge.  

Trixie sits on the edge of the bed, and in a singular moment when she’s sure Katya isn’t looking—too busy huffing and trying to pick up a bottle of olive oil that’s rolled onto the floor—she leans down and peels back the bedskirt to check underneath.  

Nothing.  

There’s no suitcase.  Nothing but dust and a few forgotten socks.  

“I wish we had candles, that would be so romantic.”

Katya’s voice makes her snap up, as she pads into the main room looking very pleased holding a bowl in each hand.  They don’t have a dining table, so they either eat dinner on the floor, the bed, or on the couch if they’re feeling very put-together and formal.  Music optional, but Katya’s switched tracks from the guitar ballad to something soft and slow. Still Russian, but the kind of song that might play in an offbeat cafe.

Katya sets the bowls down on the bedside table.  

“ _Voila!_  Straight from the homeland.”  She reaches forward, and brushes her hand over the top of Trixie’s head, then bends down to kiss her forehead.

Trixie knows she should be in a straight-up anxiety attack, but Katya’s soft lips, her hands, the smell of her; it’s all so easy to melt into.  Especially as she crawls onto the bed next to Trixie, the mattress dipping under her weight.

“Since when is Allrecipes dot com ‘the homeland’?”  Trixie asks.

She grabs her own bowl, and takes a sip straight from the edge of it, forgoing the spoon entirely.

“Since my _velikaya-velikaya babushka_ ’s handwritten cookbook was lost in the fire.”  Katya replies, “Don’t be insensitive, _darling_.”

Trixie hasn’t seen Katya so relaxed, guard absolutely abandoned, in… well, almost a month now.  It’s been such a shitshow between them they haven’t had time to be a couple. Or go on a date. Or share their own specific brand of tenderness, one that usually involves a lot of slaps on the thigh and taunts bordering on genuine insults.  

Trixie wishes that she could just let sleeping dogs lie and enjoy this moment.  The way Katya’s hair twists down around her face, her little performance-bruised knuckles adorned with a few silver rings, the touch of perfume on her skin.  She wishes she could get swept up in being with her.  Kiss her and hug her, eat the food she made.

Oh such is the curse of being a nosy bitch.

“Okay, what are you doing?”  

Trixie holds the bowl firmly in her lap, and tries as best she can to put on one of her _no nonsense_ expressions.

Katya glances up and her eyebrows knit together.

“What do you mean?”

She sounds genuinely confused, which does nothing to make Trixie feel better about her decision to make an issue where there might be none.  But fuck it, she knows what she saw. She knows what she found.

“You just decided to cook out of the goodness of your heart?”  

“Yeah, pretty much.”  Katya responds.

Trixie hasn’t even technically thanked her for the dinner she worked on for god knows how many hours.  It shows on Katya’s face.

“It wasn’t because... I dunno, maybe you felt guilty about something?”  Trixie prys.

It’s only then that Katya’s expression turns a little less jovial.  Nervousness flickering in her eyes, in those big beautiful blue eyes, peeking out from underneath abused bleached hair and her long lashes.  If Trixie didn’t know her so well, she wouldn’t have noticed the way the tips of Katya’s fingers begin to tremble ever so slightly. An anxious tick that doesn’t reach her voice.

“What are you talking about?”

Trixie knows she should drop it, but she doesn’t.  

_Grave, dug, lie in it._

“I’m talking about the suitcase that was under the bed this morning.”

She sets her bowl down on the bedside table.  Katya, on the other hand, goes completely still.  Her mouth is parted slightly. Nervous tremble on her hands becoming even more pronounced, but she seems to be having trouble spitting anything out.

So Trixie speaks up again.

“It had all your shit in it.  Why… _why_ did it have all your shit in it?”

Katya shakes her head.  It’s a tiny motion.

_If it was a big misunderstanding, surely she would’ve said so by now.  Her silence is worse than any excuse she could pull out of thin air._

“It’s not like that.” Katya says finally.

“Is this a pity dinner?”  Trixie presses, “Or a... is this a goodbye dinner?  Are you doing this to soften the blow?”

Trixie knows she’s being over-emotional.  Even aggressive; breaths now coming short in her chest bordering on hyperventilation.  But the thought of being alone… without Katya, but with her baby. It’s a kind of terror that rocks your whole foundation, which—if we’re being honest—wasn’t that steady to begin with.

But the words get Katya to snap out of her stupor, at least.

“ _No_ .”  Katya says it seriously, reaching out and grasping Trixie by the hand.  “No, this isn’t a goodbye dinner, I’m - I told you it’s not  _like_ that.”

“Then what’s it like?”  Trixie asks.

Katya closes her eyes for a moment.  

Trixie’s been crying at everything these days—a song on the radio, a paycheck a few tens short of what she expected, stubbing her toe.  It really is like in the movies; hormones turning her brain into what sometimes feels like a weird mushy tear-soaked mess of a thought process.  Her vision wobbles and wavers, the crystal clear image of Katya becoming hazy around the edges.

_Damnit.  She’d really hoped to make it out of this conversation without the waterworks._

Katya lets go of her hands.

“God…”  She breathes, and rubs at her own forehead  “I’m really not allowed to forget about the shit I did when I was drunk?”  

She laughs, but pained, and nervous.

“Depends on what you were doing.”  Trixie says.

“I was _scared_.”

“So you packed.”

“And _realized_ \- “  She adds hurriedly, “ - what a fucking bitch I was being.  Trixie, I love you, how could I do that to you? How could I do something like that?”

Trixie had assumed that she would feel better once she caught Katya in her lie.  As if she’d unearthed something. But it’s _ugly_ , it feels so ugly, to know that yes.  She _did_ want to leave.  She did pack her bag, and she did want to run, and maybe something stopped her this time.  But it’s only a matter of days, or weeks, before Katya gets plastered again, and feels that same type of fear.

Maybe this time around she’ll pack faster.  Make it out the door before she feels like too much of a piece of shit.

Trixie’s so lost in the thought, she barely even realizes that Katya’s holding her face in both of her hands.  Her palms are warm against the places where hot tears of anger have begun to cool on her cheeks.

“You were gonna’ leave.”  

It’s from the back of her throat, and mournful.

“I was fucked up.  I was about to pass out.  It was a mistake, Christ, I wanted to put it away before you got home from work and you’d never have to know.”

“You were going to fucking _leave_ me like this?”  Trixie shoves Katya’s hands away from her face and gets off the bed.  She doesn’t really have any direction—it’s a studio apartment, there’s nowhere to go—but she tries to take a deep breath just a few feet away from Katya, back turned.  She does her best to steady the uneven breaths clawing their way out of her lungs. _In through the nose and out through the mouth._

There’s such a long silence.

“You know what?”  Katya says, shattering the still of the room,  “Yeah. I had that thought, I’ll own that. I’m fuckin’ _terrified_ , Trixie, but I’m here.  You gotta’ understand that.”

Trixie sits down on the couch across from Katya.

Her vision is still all blurry from where she’s been weak and blubbering, and she palms violently underneath her eyes, smearing traces of mascara down over her freckles.

“I can’t believe we’re still not even talking about it.”

“About what?”  Katya asks.

“About the _baby_.”

It might, in fact, be the first time Trixie’s even referred to it like that.   _Sad, right?_  Normally either they say ‘the pregnancy’, or ‘the situation’, or even ‘the fact that she’s knocked up’, but… not _baby_.  That word’s been sitting far off the table.  Like the way they discuss the whole thing will change the outcome.  

“About me having a baby.”  Trixie continues, then adds  “ - no, I’m sorry, about me having _your_ baby.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”  Katya sighs. She sounds mad tired, clearly torn between a desire to end the conversation and a desire to make Trixie feel better.

The scariest thought, in amongst the pregnancy, scarier than the thought of giving birth, or whatever changes her body will undergo, scarier than how much it will cost, or Trixie having to learn how to be a good mother… the scariest thought is that Katya will never get used to it.  Never climb on board the excited-mommy-to-be express. Never even entertain the thought that they could be happy with a child, maybe, if they really tried.

Trixie clears her throat and presses a hand to her stomach. Her palm is warm over the barely-noticable bump.  The only physical evidence of this little plum-sized creature who didn’t even ask to be made, growing steadily, and (she prays) healthily.

“I can’t go down this road if you’re just going to have another breakdown and leave.”

Trixie knows it’s a little harsh, but it’s a survival instinct.  

It’s the weight of the whole last month bearing down on her.  The fact that it’s all really happening. The morning sickness is gone, she’s quit drinking coffee and alcohol, her tits are constantly sore, and _every single fucking thing_ makes her want to burst into tears.

She looks up at Katya.

“I need you to choose.  If we’re doing this, I need you to be all-in.  And if not, I need to know that too. Right now.”

“You mean raising it.”

“ _Duh_ , bitch.”  Trixie huffs out.  No more phrasing it gently, no more dancing around the issue, they haven’t got the fucking time,  “You and me, moms, in it for the long haul. I gotta’ know, Katya...”

Trixie has no plan if Katya ducks out.  Nobody in the world who would dare take care of her in the same way.  There would be nothing left. Nothing except harder work, and harder times, and praying - to anyone, everything, all of them - that she would figure out a way to give this child something that resembles an upbringing.  Alone. And yet, she lays the ultimatum out on the table boldly and without hesitation, because it’s what needs to be done.  Better to be left now, she thinks, than months down the line, when she’s so swollen and contorted she can barely even live life on her own terms.

It’s at that moment the Panaderia turns off their boombox.  

Rare and exquisite, the streets outside their home are tranquil, and the silence hangs in the air as she wrings her hands on the edge of her dress, just waiting. 

Waiting for Katya to speak.  Waiting for her to say anything at all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very long and a little bit kinky but isn't life much the same.

“ _Je vais être une maman!_ ”

It’s the first thing Katya says as she walks through the door of the costume shop.  Arms spread wide above her head, voice dripping in a terse fake cheer that actually causes Jean-Claude to jump in his place at the register.  Poor fucker was probably falling asleep waiting for her to show up, just counting down the minutes until he can eat his lunch, sit in the park, and watch all the twinks on roller skates breeze down the strip.  

Katya would take that life up in a heartbeat.  Aging rapidly and spending her days as a sleepy cougar, wearing muumuus down to the bodega to buy cigarettes and beer, trying to pay in cash by tucking a few ones into the cashier girls tits.  

“ _Quoi?_ ”  

He sounds so scandalized.

Katya’s sporting these bright red chunk-heel boots that thump as she walks across the floor and a black dress that swishes all witchy near her ankles. Ready for her morning shift, bright and early, two Red Bulls in her body and another one in her purse, she makes her way over to where Jean-Claude is still dumbfounded behind the counter.  His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of this pompous pinstripe overcoat, suspenders underneath and everything. Katya would kill to see him, just once, wear a t-shirt.

“You heard me you shitty old bitch.”  She nudges his shoulder, and stalks over to the back room (more of a closet with a mini fridge) to set her purse down on the lunch table.

“ _V_ _ous plaisantez._ ”

“No, I’m actually not.”  Katya returns with her remaining Red Bull.  “And don’t ‘vous’ me, we’re way past that.”

Jean-Claude huffs.  He’s so over the top when he gets bothered, face red and shiny, as it always is when Katya makes her grand appearance for the day.  Dust filters down through the streaks of sunlight, and parts around his head as he gets up from the register.

“Explain.”

“My girlfriend’s pregnant.”

Katya tries to say it with genuine happiness.  Tries to put her heart into it.

Jean-Claude knits his eyebrows together.

It’s a look that clearly communicates _back in my day, things were simple_.  And while Katya’s been bracing herself for all different kinds of reactions, every insensitive thing someone could say, every slur in the book of unmentionables, she’d rather not hear any of that shit from her boss.  

He does seem perplexed.  Genuinely and honestly doing the math in his head.  She’s almost tempted to ask if she can draw him a quick diagram, but then he softens up.

“ _To_ _utes nos félicitations_.”

“Thank you, I know, very impressive Katya.”  She reaches up and pats herself on the shoulder.  Jean-Claude keeps the dry expression fixed firmly on his face.  “And actually, on that note…” Katya sits down at the stool behind the counter and snaps open the lip of her Red Bull.  A little bit spills over onto her fingers, and she swears under her breath, wiping it off on the skirt of her dress, “...I need more hours.”

He sighs.

Of course Katya wasn’t just sharing things out of the goodness of her heart.  

Who can afford sincerity in this economy, dumbass?

“Katya, we’ve talked about this.  You already work five days a week.”

“So bump me to six.”

“Then I will have no hours for Vicky.”  

He gestures to the back.  

Katya dips her head up to see where Vicky is standing on a rickety stepladder wiping the dust off the top shelf wigs; the ones that nobody can afford, with layers and lace.

Vicky’s the only other employee at the shop.  Usually they just have one person on shift at a time to be front of the house, Jean-Claude’s cheap like that, but on occasion there’s a few minutes of overlap when Katya gets to spend time with her.  

She hates being called Vicky, too.  

Asks everyone to call her Vixen, which of course Katya goes along with, for two reasons.  One, chosen names, she gets it, and two, it’s _damn_ sexy.  Vixen’s never afraid to tell a shoplifter to fuck off if she needs to, and she’s always there on time, but she barely cares about the job.  Goes to some trendy art college for enriched minds in their early-early twenties, and spends most of her shifts with her face in a modern design textbook, or using the store phone to call her girlfriend.

“Jean, I need the fucking money.”  Katya sighs, “I got mouths to feed now.”

She’s asking because she knows he’s not flat broke.  The shop gets plenty of traffic, Katya keeps track of the sales with her own two eyeballs.  The books are clean, and business is a-boomin’, so she doesn’t give up. She stares Jean-Claude down like he’s a goat she’s trying to kill.

And finally, it works.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Katya clasps her hands together and claps them once.

" _Merci, merci, monsieur_.”

“Don’t thank me now.”  Jean Claude warns, as he grabs out his little eatery budget from the janky register, and shuffles towards the door.  It closes slowly, and not all the way, warm air pouring in through the crack between the rubber and the slightly exposed cement, leaving Katya alone in the store with Vixen.  As soon as he’s out of earshot, Katya reaches over to change the store radio from a sleepy jazz station, like sheet music took sedatives, to alternative mix.

The ladder whines as Vixen climbs down it.  

She’s wearing skin tight jeans, practical for work, a cropped leather jacket, hair puffed up into a mini Afro, and as she gets to the bottom rung, one of her shoelaces threatens to catch on a notch of the metal, but doesn’t.  Just barely.

“Congratulations.”  She says, folding the ladder up and pulling it under her arm.  Katya always forgets how strong she is despite her willowy frame.  One time they’d gotten into a boredom-fueled arm wrestling match on the front counter, and Katya  _had_ won, but after a good bit of huffing and puffing that left her arm sore for hours after.  “I’ll be fucked if I let you steal my hours though.” She adds, with a pointed look.

“Oh, he can afford to pay both of us.”  Katya waves her hand, “ Besides, he’s like three hundred years old, what’s he need the money for? Viagra? A new stylish cravat?”  

Katya feels like  _she’s_ three hundred years old, talking to Vixen, who probably still has an expired highschool ID somewhere in her purse that she can whip out for comedic self-humiliation.  Meanwhile, Katya doesn’t even remember what her homeroom looked like, or what the purpose of it was.

“Both.”  Vixen drags the ladder around the corner and rests it behind the counter near the break room door.  She props it up next to their boxes of spare wig caps, and rolls of art project construction paper. “How far along is she?”

Katya’s posture deflates and she takes a sip of her Red Bull.

“Three months now.”  Her voice is flat, wrung-out, “Isn’t life precious?”

“So it was an accident?”

They still have this old-timer punch card system, something from back in the day when pride was a death march and hot technology was a fax machine.  Vixen grabs her timesheet off the slat, feeding it inside until the thing munches and beeps once, spits out her card with a freshly mangled hole.

“Yep.”  Katya nods, “Guess we were just having too much amazing, athletic, passionate, intense, maybe even a little gross…”

“No, stop talking.”  Vixen holds up her hand and shakes her head.  Which is fair. She uses her foot to nudge the break room door open, grab her purse off the table inside.  “But hey, don’t worry about it. I was an accident and now I’m a blessing on this earth.”

Katya smiles.  

Kids these days are so into themselves.  It's kind of heartwarming, or narcissistic and degenerative, depending on who you ask, but Katya reckons it’s the former.

 _Maybe,_ she thinks,  _that bodes well for little Miss or Mister future Mattel._

“You’re off?”  Katya asks her.

Vixen nods with her bag slung over her shoulder, already halfway out the door.

“I was just here to help him open.  I’ll be back for the night shift.”

“Why?”

Vixen tugs a pair of sunglasses out of her bag, round and reflecting the shelves of the shop in this iridescent red-blue ombre.

“Because you never show up on time.”

Katya can’t see her eyes, but they sound thoroughly rolled.

“Stay safe out there.”  Katya says, and raises her Red Bull to Vixen like it’s a glass of wine, who smiles, in a blink-and-you miss it kind of way.

“Always do.”

As she exits, the shop bell clangs against the upper part of the frame.  A sound that Katya thinks she even hears in her dreams, it’s such an integral part of her life now, whether she likes it or not.

 

~

 

Jean-Claude inevitably coughs up the hours.  

It’s one of those careful what you wish for kinds of things.  After he updated the schedule, it was just… god, a whole three weeks Katya’s spent almost her entire life at the shop.  Work and more fucking work.  Keeping the break room clean, helping baby queens find shoes in their size, and sometimes just falling asleep at the counter.  Coming home too tired to try and break out another old family recipe, or give a moment’s time to her and Trixie’s slowly decaying sex life.  It’s a lot, sure, but the extra few hours every paycheck make a notable difference, so she pushes through.

It’s also a preventative measure to keep Trixie from having to worry too much, although she still does.  Still has herself dead-set on finding a better job before she gives birth, God bless her heart.

Katya knows that she could theoretically look for a better job.  It wouldn’t be a very fruitful search, though, she knows that too.  Love it or hate it, she’s qualified to work at the costume store.  Doors open to everyone from queens to kings to twenty-dollar hookers.  That’s her target demographic; her  _people_ for fucks sake, and she has no complaints about it.

But tonight?  

They’re getting  _out._

Katya’s decided she’s using her tips for the evening’s festivities, whatever they may be, to give her and Trixie one true and honest date.  Even if that date is dragging Trixie to the same grimy bar Katya performs in every month, buying her a virgin margarita, and giving her a seventy-percent-effort thirty-percent-alcohol-induced show alongside Kasha.

“It’s super obvious.”

Trixie’s gesturing to her dress.  

It’s one of her tighter fitting numbers, so duh, but Trixie’s been complaining that she’s straddling the line between looking pregnant and just looking like she’s gained weight.  She’s definitely on the pregnant side of things in Katya’s eyes; clear where the seams of her clothes strain, her stomach rounded just a little too smoothly, bellybutton poking through the thin fabric.

They’re still at home.  Lightly beat faces and hair dutifully styled.  Katya’s clad in some white knee-high boots, and a leotard that she’s painted neon Keith-Haring-esque shapes onto.  Over it all, she has a sharp black latex trenchcoat that squeaks whenever she tries to put her hands in her pockets.

“What, that you’re with child?  And out of wedlock no less?” Katya gasps, placing one of her manicured hands on the side of her cheek.  Very telenovela.

“Oh my god.”  Trixie crosses her arms over her own body, but doesn’t seem like she’s gonna make an effort to change.  Katya’s glad for it. She looks cute, in her little pink cocktail dress, gaudy vintage beaded sweater to keep warm in the night, bracelets in sets of three.  “I just don’t wanna’ be, like, a pregnant girl in a bar. That’s so sad.”

“So just own it.”  Katya suggests. “You’re gestating a real human person and that’s not something you’re gonna apologize for.”

“I wish I would.”

Four and a half months.  

She’s four and a half months pregnant.  The halfway marker that snuck up on them so much faster than Katya had expected.

About a week back, they’d holed up on the floor with a few sheets of notebook paper making lists upon lists of all the things they needed.  It was a sweltering day, and Trixie had an ice pack sitting on her shoulders, to remedy the heat _and_ the way her neck was rapidly stiffening under the subtle adjustments her body was inflicting on her spine.

“Crib.”  Trixie said, “We can probably get that at Goodwill, right?”

“Why buy one?  It’s a baby, it doesn’t have standards, I can put blankets in a cardboard box.”

Trixie thought about it for a second.  Tapped the pen against her hand.

“Does that make us bad people?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, plush cardboard box it is.”

They’re taking it seriously, just… in their own way.

Katya still isn’t certain that she’s lived down her bone-headed escape attempt.  Not in Trixie’s eyes at least, although she is trying. It had been a hard conversation when Trixie found out despite her efforts to keep it under wraps, but truthfully, the choice itself?  That part was easy as apple pie.

Easy because if she’s being realistic, her life without Trixie is a short and depressing road.  A one-way ticket to clawing off skin sores behind a dumpster, using her body like an all-to-common trading card, returning to the ever-unlocked door of recklessness. Once you’ve been in love, she’s realized, and once you’ve lost it … that’s the kind of shit you can’t find a cheap replacement for.  

So she promised Trixie that she would try.  That she was in it for the long haul. It was true, but it didn’t stop her from being a big ol’ bundle of anxiety about the prospect of… _ugh_.  

Fuck.

It’s still hard to spit out.  

The prospect of having a kid.

That’s not the kind of shit that you get used to overnight, but it’s the kind of shit she’s getting used to, even if it's at her own snails pace, and one morbid joke at a time.

 

~

 

Around ten, they arrive at the bar looking like Cruella de Vil minus twenty years and a knocked up yet particularly modest playboy bunny. But that’s _fine_.  

Absolutely fine.

Katya’s pretty sure she’s crawled every crevice of this place at some point.  Knows how many pieces of gum are stuck under each chair. Knows the bartenders by name, and knows which ones will cut you off after you start to lose the ability to walk straight, and which ones will pour you a shot on the house just to see the shitshow.

She takes Trixie by the hand and starts weaving through the early-birds.  The people that have been day drinking since five in the afternoon, and the excited just-turned-twenty-one college girls looking at everything like it’s shiny and new.  As if every inch of this place hasn’t, at some point, been covered in puke, cheap beer, semen, or all three at the same time.

Katya raps her knuckles against the green room door and pushes it open a crack.

“You decent, lady Davis?”

“No, but I’m dressed.”  

Katya swings the door open and almost screams with delight when she sees what Kasha’s wearing.

“Oh _bitch_.”  She grins and throws her bag down onto the floor.  “You look _amazing._ ”

It’s the full Atlantic City hooker getup.  Katya knows, because they have matching ones.  Used to do a routine where they came out dressed like twins, somewhere between stand up and performance art.  It was one of her favorite bits to do, but that was back when they performed with a whole lineup, and not just the cheap two-bitch show that they run now.

“I thought you’d say that.”  Kasha stands to hug Katya, “You look like you just used up a ten dollar forever twenty-one gift card.”

“Excuse me, this is custom-made.”  Katya acts offended, but shoves off her jacket as she lets go of Kasha,  “You’ve met my girlfriend, right?”

Katya takes a little step to the side and extends her hand to Trixie, pulling her closer into the small green room, with it’s bulbous vanity lights and questionable carpeting.  

“Forever ago.”  Kasha extends his clawed fake-nailed hand, adorned with awful bangles and an elbow-length leopard print sleeve.

It makes Trixie’s hand look dainty and minimalistic in comparison.  

“You haven’t aged a decade.”  Trixie says cordially, flashing Kasha some teeth.

“Oh, oh, and, of course…”  Katya places an arm around Trixie’s shoulders, and in an uncharacteristic moment of feeling confident in - well, whatever the hell is going on between them - pats the small bump on Trixie’s stomach,  “... our newest addition. We’re either naming it Olga or Yaroslav, depending.”

“We are fully naming it neither of those things.”  Trixie cuts in quickly, enough to make Kasha laugh.

“You let her make jokes like that and you don’t even slap her?”  Kasha asks, blue-painted eyes flashing between the two of them.  But Trixie just winces, and Katya doesn’t jump to defend herself, and it hangs syrupy in the air.  

Awkward silence is pretty much the reaction they’ve been getting all across the board.  

“Oh, wait, you’re serious?”  Kasha asks, his mouth only hanging open a little as he looks between the two of them, and then down at Trixie’s stomach, and then back to Katya, “You’re serious.”

“Yeah!  Don’t look so shocked, you’re hurting my feelings.”  Katya presses a hand to her own chest.

Kasha seems to get a hold of himself then, hands on his fake styrofoam hips, exhaling.

“My apologies. You don’t seem like you’re exactly the maternal type, but I’m _very_ happy for the two of you.”  He says, although there’s a little twinge of suspicion still in the back of his throat.  But hey, that’s fine, Katya’s not sure if she can pull off motherhood either, so no need to ask a third party for that vote of confidence.  “Parenthood’s one hell of a ride.”

“But is it worth the price of admission?”  Katya asks vaguely, removing her arm from Trixie’s shoulders and grabbing her bag off the ground again.  She'd shoot the shit with Kasha all night, but there's no time to have the expectant mother talk right now.  Just time to get her girl a drink and get her own dick shoved down under some duct tape so she won’t be pulled offstage by a hook to the neck.

 

~

 

Katya has two cocktails while she’s doing her makeup, which is one less than usual.  

She can’t even imagine how it is for Trixie.  Not being able to drink at all, not being able to have coffee, smoke weed, or even go an hour without having to pee.  Katya knows she’d lose her mind within a week.  Even thinking about it makes her want to do shots.  Still, she’s been telling herself that once Trixie starts feeling the baby kick, she’ll make an attempt to quit cigarettes, or at the very least, cut down to just a few per day.  It doesn’t seem fair to just nurture all her shitty habits when her girlfriend’s practically running around pure as a reborn Catholic.

A minute before the show, as she’s handing her flash drive to the DJ with two numbers queued to go, Katya realizes she's been worrying the collar of her leotard with her nail so militantly that she's actually created a small hole on the stitching.  

It’s absurdly nerve-wracking thinking that Trixie’s just a few feet away.  The only audience member she’d ever actually give a shit about.  It’s easy to come out a raging hot mess and flick your tongue at strangers, even if you’re stumbling drunk, or your heart isn’t in it, but people you know?  People you care about impressing in the most minuscule of ways?  It feels different in front of them.

She’s opening with her slow number, though, so hiding her buzz behind splits and no pussy popping the nerves away.

The stage has a curtain entrance.  Katya loves those.  Always gives her a good little campy moment of emerging, like a prop she didn’t have to bring.   

The first words of the song strike up quickly, sweet Lana, whining _let’s get out of this town, baby, we’re on fire_ and she whips the swath of velvet back with this desprate, sultry, heartbroken expression plastered on her face.  

The spotlights are up.  It’s hard to see the audience much beyond identifying that its a larger than usual crowd, but she could spot Trixie a mile away.  Sitting in the front row with her little strawberry margarita sans-tequila. ( _This is a smoothie_ , she’d complained at the bar, but still apparently ordered herself a second.)

Katya sells every word of it. 

_Everyone around here seems to be going down, down, down._

She runs her fingers over her body, pausing to push her tits together, the neon arrows and criss-crossing lines of her bodysuit bending, angular and obtrusive.  Her hands wander lower. She flutters her eyelashes and stops to slap her hand between her legs once, earning a dog whistle from the back of the room that makes her smile.

_You wish._

She steps slowly, deliberately, down from the stage.  Down the narrow set of stairs that she knows oh so many ladies (including herself) have at some point tripped down, slipped down, spilled their drink over.  But she executes it well.  Tap, tap, tap, go her bright white stompin’ boots until she’s able to grind them into the club floor.

She’s normally not one to single people out of the crowd unless they have money in their hand.

But, you know.

That’s her girl.

Katya flicks her eyes up to Trixie.  Straw between her lips, eyes wide and fixated underneath the miasma of fog and sweat being tossed about by a large fan near the front door of the bar, she’s  _unbelievably_ cute.  Katya grasps her own face with both hands, knitting her eyebrows together, like she’s worried.

_I got so scared, I thought no one could save me._

A few steps closer.  She’s having a ball ignoring the few hopefuls on the brim of the audience.  People holding into their dollar bills with pride and misplaced reverence.

_You came along, scooped me up like a baby._

A smile slips over her face as the chorus breathes a little life into the room.  And then she’s sinking to her knees ever so slowly, crouching before she crawls, and then crawling to the edge of Trixie’s chair.

_Every now and then the stars align, boy and girl meet by the great design._

_Could it be that you and me are the lucky ones?_

She stops in front of Trixie, and reaches out to grab her knees with primadonna-like drama, putting every inch of Lana Del Rey’s surely cocaine and cognac-induced ballad into her face, her body, her pussy, whatever she has to show for herself.  

Above her, Trixie is blushing.  A warm pink that matches her dress, as Katya slinks up her body slowly.  Moves to sit side-saddle on her lap and snake an arm around her shoulder.

_Everybody told me love was blind._

One of Katya’s hands brushes over her flushed cheek.  It’s unclear whether or not she takes some foundation with her.  

_Then I saw your face and you blew my mind._

Trixie’s beaming ear to ear.  Her drink still clutched in her free hand, eyes like terra-cotta where the lights hit them, trying not to grab Katya and pull her forward into an indecent kiss.  

Katya thinks it’s more for herself than the audience, although she’s still getting her fair share of cheers and stares.

_Could it be that you and me are the lucky ones?_

They’re so far from lucky.

Everything about their lives, all the beat-down no good nights and days that stretch onwards as if the California sun will refuse nightfall, all the secret-keeping and wading through years of mutual trauma… it’s a mess.  Paint by the numbers. One day at a time. But she loves Trixie for all she’s worth. Happy to spend the good and the bad days next to her, and now _this_.  

The baby.  

The little bump that Katya can feel now, pressing into her hip as she sits on Trixie’s lap and runs fingers over her shoulder.  The thing that she can tell, even though Trixie hasn’t said anything, is becoming more and more important to her with each passing day.  

The thought has been terrorizing Katya’s fragile mind, but here in this moment, a calm washes over her like it's the eye of a storm.

And then she’s up.  

Chorus over, audience starting to raise their eyebrows, she’s up and off Trixie’s lap in a second.  The next verse is something about boys, so girlfriend be damned, she picks a random dude from the audience and gives him energy.  Twists a few crumpled up bills out of his hand and blows him a kiss when he blows her one first.

She keeps expecting the serenity to leave her, but when the song ends, and she walks back to the green room, all she can think about is Trixie’s grinning sweaty little face, and how she’s going to bring her energy back up for Touch Myself.  

 

~

 

Kasha pays for their cab home.  

It’s such a nice gesture, counting out twenty of his communicable-disease-ridden tip dollars and pressing them into Katya’s hand.  He seems genuinely happy for them, albeit still reserved.  Concerned.  Meanwhile, Katya’s just thankful that she doesn’t have to make the trek on foot.  

She’s not _traumatized_ , per-say, (sad as it sounds, the incident the month before wasn’t even the worst thing a trick had tried on her) but the thought of walking the same route home just makes her skin crawl.  Especially knowing Trixie would be beside her, and walking as a pair would do nothing to dissuade interested gentlemen callers, or suspicious patrol cars.

So they take a cab.

It’s air conditioned inside, which Katya is thankful for, seeing as her skin has been caked with sweat for the past hour.  Her clothes, on the other hand, are fine.  She always brings a loose dress to change into after the show; something she can go untucked in.  She’s wearing it now, simple black wrap with a loose hem, resting with Trixie’s head pressed up under her chin.

The streetlights dance and waver off the windows of the cab like holograms.  She can smell shampoo on Trixie’s hair.  Cherry blossom and ginger.

“You’re so pretty.”  Trixie says under her breath, “I feel like you’re outta' my league sometimes.”

She’s said that before, and it always makes Katya confused.  She’s not sure what league she’s in herself.  A league specifically for messy trilingual substance-abusive insomniac genderbending women with hearts of gold and above-average senses of absurdist humor.  That league.  If anything, she thinks Trixie is the one that’s settling, although she never voices it.

“I am.”  She says confidently, “But I keep you around because you’re a good pity fuck.”

She gives a squeeze to Trixie’s side.  

Trixie responds by tilting her head up, and kissing Katya’s jawline.  The cab is one of those kinds with the plastic barrier, thankfully obscuring them from the driver, who hasn’t really bothered to say much beyond asking them the address of their destination.  

Katya cranes her neck down to kiss Trixie properly.  Spit-on-spit, tongues warm, the faint aftertaste of strawberries in the back of her throat.

She knows things between them have been a little bland.  Bordering on boring, especially when it comes to the whole bumpin’ and grindin’ department.  But hey, forgive Katya for finding the whole tiny person growing inside her to be a slight boner kill.  Actually, scratch that, not slight.  Major. It’s a major boner kill.

And no, it has nothing to do with the bump.  

If anything, Katya loves the extra few pounds Trixie’s packed on in her tummy.  And her thighs. And God, somehow, impossibly, her tits.

Katya’s hesitant to say she’s glowing.  But she looks nice. Really nice.

She rolls her tongue over Trixie’s bottom lip, smiling against her; at the feeling of Trixie pressing in close.  Indulging a backseat make-out session like they’re still in the honeymoon phase.  Katya still remembers the first time they fucked, messy and inconvenient in a club bathroom.  She couldn’t get Trixie to do that shit these days even if she bribed her.

But, the thinks, she might be able to swing this…

Katya hooks her fingers on the edge of Trixie’s skirt.  

She slowly hikes up the fabric, and feels Trixie pull out of the kiss to give her a _look_.  Eyes flicking in the direction of the driver's seat.

“How’s the job hunt coming?”  Katya asks.

Trixie’s lips fall open a little.

Katya runs her hand up the soft skin of Trixie’s thigh, skirt bunching up around her wrist.  It’s only an instant before her hand creeps high enough to settle at her hip, grab the waistband of her panties, and give them one tug.  A silent question.

For a second, she thinks Trixie isn’t gonna let her do it.  

Then, Trixie lets out a breath of air, and lifts her hips.  

“Shitty.  Everything’s either minimum wage or part time.”  Katya pulls Trixie’s panties all the way over her legs.  She has to lean down to the floor of the car to help her delicately step out of them one foot at a time, like she’s rummaging around in her purse.  She balls them up and places them next to her wallet, a little gift for later. “I asked Kim to look out for me. She knows people.”

Katya nudges Trixie’s knees apart with her hand.  

Everything below the belt is well out of the range of the rear view mirror.  Not that he’s paying attention.  Not that Katya would care if he was.  He’s got the radio at half-volume and his hand tapping against the steering wheel; listening to the same boring jazz shit she has to hear at work all day.

“Gonna give the whole beautician thing a whirl again?”  Katya asks Trixie, as she runs her fingers up the inside of Trixie’s leg.  Her other hand slips in between the stiff curls of her hair, tangling between them, and then gripping them by the fistfull.

Trixie drops her voice to a whisper.  

“Kat, what are you doing?”

Her bottom lip is still a wet with spit, and bitten, even puffy.  Katya’s having trouble taking her eyes off it.

“Just making conversation.”

That’s when she presses her hand up between Trixie’s legs.  Placid against the barely-noticable stubble that indicates a day or so gone without shaving.  She slips two of her fingers in between Trixie's labia, feeling that (despite her little bashful routine) she’s wet.  It clings to Katya’s fingers in strings, warm like freshly-melted sugar, or honey left out in the sun.

Trixie sucks in a breath.  It hitches as Katya’s fingers flick over her clit once, her whole body tensing up.  Twitching and then going still.

“You were saying, about the job?”  Katya presses her further.

Trixie’s cheeks bloom red.  It even reaches her nose, but if she has any complaints, she doesn’t voice them.

“Uh…” She struggles to regain her train of thought, hips pressing subtly forward against where Katya’s still rubbing her fingers painfully slow over her pussy.  “I guess I wish I could do something with music.”

She says it in a rush.  Katya hums in return.

“Oh, like work on your songs?”  

She curls her middle finger and pushes it inside Trixie.  Warmth permeates over her hand, and she can feel Trixie grip onto her thigh with her sharp little fake nails, far too sharp for a proper dyke, digging into Katya’s skin claw-like.

“No.” Trixie shakes her head.  She barely swallows a noise of pleasure as Katya eases a second finger in alongside the first, “... just… just anything to do with music.  Even production.”

Katya runs her hand through Trixie’s hair and starts moving her fingers at this slow, lethargic pace, fucking Trixie just to the edge of pleasure, but not so hard that it would ever actually be able to get her off.  Trixie’s skirt is up around her hips, and Katya’s able to get a peek at her pussy; pink, swollen, and clinging to Katya’s fingers at the knuckle.

“Well, you can do anything you put your mind to.”  

She's more talking about keeping quiet than the job.  Trixie knows, too, in the way she bites her lip and leans into Katya’s hand still stroking on the back of her head.

The lights outside fall chaotic on her face.  Shades of red and yellow, fusing with the cerulean night, and the jarring headlights passing them by.  Katya can feel where Trixie’s dripping onto her fingers. At this rate she’ll have a small wet patch on the seat of her dress before they’re even home.

“Please.”  

Trixie says it so quietly Katya almost isn’t sure if she heard it herself.

Then, the cab is grinding to a stop.

Katya tugs her fingers out of Trixie quickly.  It makes her whine, press her legs together, blush even as Katya wipes her hand off in her own bare leg and grabs the money Kasha gave her.  

She gives the whole amount to the driver through the gap in the partition, without a request for change, and if he heard anything unsavory, he doesn’t let it show.  

They climb out into the dark.

“You’re _such_ a bitch.”  

Trixie gives her a little shove as the cab starts to speed away, although she’s still clinging to Katya with one hand for dear life.  Katya’s beaming, red lips curled around pearly teeth, overjoyed at the notion that she’s actually making Trixie _frustrated_.  How fuckin'  _sweet_ is that?

“Shut up.”  Katya breathes, and just to show she means business, grabs onto Trixie by the jaw and backs her up a few paces towards the curb.  It’s just far enough that she stumbles a little on wavering knees. Enough to wipe that stupid look off Trixie’s face momentarily.  “Don’t talk, just follow me.”

It’s always fun to have Trixie like this. 

Weak-willed, all big eyes and fuckable mouth, just waiting; waiting for whatever Katya will tell her to do.

Katya grabs her hand again and starts pulling her towards the front gate of the complex.

Maybe if they were in a Lifetime movie the hallways sprawling inside would be quiet, and as they entered their apartment, the lights would be already warm and glowing, bed made neat, soft music emanating through some kind of offscreen speaker.

It’s not like that at all.  

The stairwell is dark, and there’s the sounds of an argument echoing down the hall from the first floor.  Just above that, the sounds of someone’s cat hissing like they’re trying to bathe it. Another tenant is playing their radio loud enough that their neighbor has taken to banging their wall with a broom, and it keeps in time with the sound of their footsteps, _bump, bump, bump_ , climbing the concrete stairs, until they reach their front door.

What a fucking sound that is.  A whole matchbox of smaller matchboxes, everyone cagey and angry in the heat, as they should be on a Friday night.  

Katya hopes they aren’t the only ones fucking.  But scratch that, she _knows_ they’re not the only ones fucking.  The people in the apartment above them and to the left have been going at it morning noon and night for months now.

She locks their door behind them and doesn’t turn on the lights.

“Get undressed and get on the bed.”  

She can see Trixie’s little smirk in the dark.  The pleasure she gets from not knowing for certain what will happen next.  Trixie lets her little sweater drop to the floor, and then just as requested, starts pulling her dress over her head starting at the hem.  

Katya, on the other hand, takes her time sitting down on the couch.  Removing her boots slowly and one at a time, snaking the zipper down, savoring the way Trixie’s skin spills out of her clothes and turns blue underneath the light of the sky.  

Trixie’s panties are still in Katya’s bag.  After her dress is on the floor, it’s just a matter of unclasping her bra behind herself before she’s entirely naked and sitting down tentatively on the edge of the bed.  

One of her hands falls naturally onto her stomach.  Katya fixates on it, resting on the swell, pinky dipping into her own belly button.  Her entire body is shimmering with stripes of light painted against her through the shutters, and pale against the sheets.

She looks beautiful.  

Katya’s not about to let herself get tripped up by the baby, not this time, no sir.  Fuck _that_.  

She stands up to pull her dress down over her body.  Once on the floor, she kicks it a few inches away with her foot, bare except for a pair of black satin underwear and a plain push-up.  She shoves a few frayed bits of hair out of her eyes. Not a bad ensemble, she thinks, for someone who just spent two hours doing erotic gymnastics for a group of horny strangers.

Katya wants to play up on the strict lover thing.  She really does.  But when she sees the way Trixie’s eyeing her, she can’t help but smile.

No audience ever looked at her quite like that.

She walks over to the bed slowly, bringing one hand up to rest against Trixie’s collarbone and gently pushing her back onto the mattress.  Once laying down, she holds her there, eyes dragging over her body.

“You gotta’ know how fucking beautiful you are.”  Katya breathes, and sinks to her knees in front of Trixie.  She pats Trixie’s hip once, and she seems to get the picture; lifts her feet up so that she’s braced against the edge of the bed, and her legs are spread.  

“Thanks.”  

It’s soft, and a little nervous.  

Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s been a while, or the fact that Katya can’t entirely see her face over the swell of her stomach, but it almost makes her feel anger.  Visceral disappointment that Trixie can’t know herself like Katya knows her.

“No, seriously.”  Katya leans in and kisses her thigh softly.  It leaves a red lipstick mark in its wake, “Couldn’t fuckin' take my eyes off you the whole night.”  

Her eyes flick between Trixie’s legs where she’s already dripping down dangerously close to their sheets.  If they were new sheets Katya might have the sense to be worried, but they’ve washed out come stains countless times before, and they’ll absolutely do it again.  

“You’re one to talk.”  Trixie groans. Her body tenses as Katya drags her tongue along her thigh, leading a little dotted map line from where she’d placed her lips, all the way over Trixie’s cunt, until she can just flick the tip of her tongue against her clit, once.  

“ _Ah!_ ”

A precious little gasp.

Katya rolls it around in her mouth, the taste of Trixie’s slick, sweet and intoxicating.  

She  _missed_ that taste.  

Missed seeing Trixie vulnerable and tripped up, fingers flexing in the sheets.  

Katya reaches under the bed while Trixie’s still breathing heavy above her, and searches with her hand till she feels the edge of a small black box.

Probably the most money they’ve ever spend on _anything_ short of an iPhone sits in that box.  Cradled by it’s little padded four corners; a mingling of silver and leather and latex.  There’s even a few packs of flavored lube that they’d gotten for free at a pride parade, not that they need it now.  Not with the way Trixie is dripping all over herself.

Her rummaging causes Trixie to lift her head.

“No peeking.”  Katya warns, and brings her free hand up to her mouth.  

She wears press-ons for this exact reason.  She also wears them because she’s dirt cheap, but one by one, she bites off each plastic nail, and listens to them clatter onto the floor.  _Like bullet casings._ It’s a bit distasteful, but that’s practically her signature at this point.  Once finished, she presses her now hazard-free hand against Trixie’s pussy, tracing down over the folds, and then lower, until she can tease a finger against Trixie’s ass.

“Oh my god,  _yeah_.”

Trixie finally gets what she’s going for, and wiggles her hips back.

It’s not exactly cute, but it’s _something_.  Katya wraps her free hand around Trixie’s thigh to hold her in place.

“A little pent-up, baby?”

Languid, and deliberate, Katya eases her finger inside Trixie’s ass.  It’s easy even just slicked with her wetness, and Katya feels the way her body tenses.  Hears the rush of breath leaving her lips. Katya leans forward and closes her mouth over Trixie’s clit, and while her first instinct is to just dive in, she starts with her tongue moving back and forth achingly slow.

She hums against Trixie’s pussy, and before Trixie can quite get used to the sensation, pushes a second finger in alongside the first.  Trixie’s hole stretches tight around the two of them.

“ _Fuck_ , Katya…”  Trixie’s thighs are shaking on either side of her head, hips rolling up to try and press against Katya’s tongue a little harder, or get her fingers in deeper.  Katya loves taking her time with it. Savoring the way she tastes with every slow drag of her mouth.

She could stay like this forever, blind and wandering between her legs, and _yet_ …

Katya pulls her mouth off, gooey and messy, and reaches back into the box.  She quickly hooks her finger around a small silver plug, handle decorated with a fake pink gem, the same kind of gem that belongs on a stripper’s belly button piercing.  Trixie had asked for it especially when they spotted it in some adult shop; said she wanted to feel like a lady while she was getting assfucked, and it had been enough to make Katya burst out laughing and drop forty dollars right then and there.

She presses the tip of it against Trixie’s ass, and hears her little surprised whimper at the cold.

Katya pushes it against her, watching wide-eyed and attentive at the way Trixie’s pink little hole stretches around it.  She moans around the biggest part, and then her back arches, as it slips the rest of the way inside snugly, leaving her shuddering and gripping at the sheets.

And just for good measure, Katya gives it a small slap with four fingers.

“Oh God...”  Trixie groans, and scoots back onto the bed like she’s making room,  “ _Please_ fuck me, please...”  

Katya can hold out a long time when she wants to.  But,  _fuck_.  It’s been almost a month and a half of them dancing around each-other, keeping it PG-13, and if there were ever a time to hold out, it’s not now.  

She reaches behind herself and unclasps her bra, which falls to the floor, and she climbs bare-chested onto the bed in between Trixie’s legs.  

It’s honestly a little frantic.  She doesn’t even get her panties off all the way, just leans down over Trixie and pulls her cock out of the waistband.  It’s flushed pink, dripping precome over her fingers, and Katya bites down on Trixie’s bottom lip as she rubs the head against her pussy.

Katya kisses Trixie properly then, fevered, driven to the point of sucking on her tongue like it’s hard candy, as she pushes inside.  

Oh, _God_ , to be inside her again.  

It makes her moan into Trixie’s mouth.  The warmth, the way Trixie grabs onto her arms so tight, the way the smallest sensations radiate all over her body in currents.

“Fuck, I love you.”  

Katya gasps it against her lips.

It’s not exactly dirty talk.  Not quite as fast and filthy as she’s used to, but it’s… it’s been a minute.  And it _means_ something, to feel Trixie underneath her, even though it’s different now.  Different due to Katya having to keep herself half-pushed up to avoid crushing Trixie’s stomach.

Katya hasn’t even started moving yet, still lolling in the ferocity of it all, when she feels a small tap on her shoulder.

“Katya…” Trixie presses a hand to Katya’s chest, just above her right breast, and Katya stills her hips. “I want… wanna ask you something.”

“What?”

She hopes it sounds more lust-addled than impatient.

“Can you…”  It’s almost like she’s embarrassed.  Which is uncharacteristic. Trixie’s never shy about what she wants; in fact, sometimes it’s all Katya can do just to get her to shut up about it.  But here she is, gaze flickering across Katya’s face, words caught behind her teeth, “I want … Jesus, I don’t know how to phrase it.”

“Well, I don’t think we have time for charades.”

Trixie actually giggles at that, but the action just sends little tremors through her body that go straight to Katya’s cock, and have her whimpering again.

“I want…”  Trixie sighs, “I want you to fuck me like… like you’re tryna’ to get me pregnant.”

Katya’s heard Trixie spout some filthy shit before.  Ask to be gagged, choked, spanked, the whole nine yards.  But she’ll admit, _that_?  

That takes her off guard.

“Like we’re doing it right.”  Trixie adds quickly, “Like we… like we wanted this.”

Oh.  

A do-over.  

That’s what she’s talking about.

A slutty, slutty scenario in which they actually feel satisfied with the situation at hand.  Katya thinks about it for a second, trying to power down the parts of her mind that wants to scurry as far away from the topic of babies as possible, hide in the trenches, take fucking cover.  Trying to find the catharsis in that. The appeal.

Fuck her like they’re trying for it.

Fuck the mistake away, even if just for a brief moment.

She thinks about it until she comes to the conclusion that, yeah.  She can do that.

Katya lets out a breath and trails her hands down Trixie’s sides.  Her thumbs gently brush over her stomach, before she grabs onto Trixie by the hips.  When she moves again, pulling out and pushing back inside, it’s slower.  Like they have all the time in the world. Katya watches all the different ways Trixie reacts; eyelash flutters and lip bites.  She turns over in her mind the fact that it’s her baby.  Some small sliver of her being now embedded in her girlfriend.  Not just an abstract unfortunate circumstance, but _her_ baby inside Trixie; primal and possessive.  

“Is this stupid?”  Trixie gasps as Katya finds a rhythm.

“No.”  She doesn’t slow down, pressing in deep enough that she can feel Trixie tense underneath her, “Not stupid.”  Katya reaches one of her hands up and brushes her thumb over Trixie’s lips. After all their antics, she’s finally devoid of lipstick, and her mouth is shimmering.  “But you gotta ask me better than that.”

Trixie’s eyes snap wide for a moment.  It’s clearly not what she was expecting to hear, but then Katya feels her hook a leg around Katya’s waist, like she’s trying to pull her in impossibly deeper.

“Please, Katya.”  She breathes, turning her head, huge golden curls dragging over the comforter, and her lips brushing against Katya’s thumb again.  “I want it so bad, I want… want you to fuckin’ knock me up.”

A smile graces Katya’s face.  Just a tug at the corners of her mouth as she starts moving her hips harder, thighs sliding against Trixie’s every time she pushes in.  

“Everyone’s gonna know how much of a whore you are.”  Katya breathes, running her hand up and over Trixie’s hair, pushing it out of her flushed face, “That what you want?”

“God, yeah.”  She sighs. Her eyes are closed, leg still hooked around Katya like she’s afraid to let her go.  It’s been so long since Katya’s been inside her like this, lost track of time above her, lost track of anything extending beyond their mattress, “Just for you, nobody else.”

The words tug at her.  Tenderness among all the bullshit and the filth and the mistakes.  Katya moans and, desperate, buries her face in Trixie’s shoulder. She finds Trixie’s hand, winds their fingers together tight, even though she knows her palms are horribly sweaty.  

“Trix, you’re gonna make me come.”  She whines.

If it were any other night she’d be concerned with lasting longer, but it’s not any other night.  She knows that Trixie’s in the same boat underneath her, both holes filled, on the edge and needy.  

“Do it.”  Trixie squeezes Katya’s hand, the faint smell of perfume mingling with sweat on her neck, “Come in me, come in me, _please_.”  

Katya opens her mouth, half-biting into Trixie’s shoulder to stifle this guttural moan in the back of her throat.  She rolls her hips inside Trixie as she feels her orgasm building in her stomach, and when she comes, she suddenly feels Trixie’s hand soothing down her back.  Moving from her shoulder to the dip in her spine.

She can tell Trixie’s coming underneath her too; hears the high-pitched whimper, and feels the way she tightens down around Katya’s cock, body livewire.  It sends chills through her, as she finishes inside Trixie with her mouth still hanging open against her shoulder.

The sounds of their battered breathing blend with the sounds of the apartments above and below; arguments and television sets on full volume.

After a full minute of shuddering against each other, and slowly becoming still, Katya rolls off Trixie and flops down next to her on the bed.

“ _Fuck._ ”  

Katya brushes messy half-damp hair out of her own eyes and then, almost involuntarily, a grin spreads across her face.

Next to her, Trixie is still trembling with the aftershocks.  She has a hand between her own legs, and for a second Katya thinks Trixie’s trying to get herself wound up for round two, and is scrambling to figure out how to break it to her that round one was pretty much all the energy she had in her.  Then, she sees where Trixies two fingers are hooking around the jewel end of the buttplug and slowly pulling it out. She gasps as it comes free, and tosses it onto the bed.

“Oh my god.”  Trixie rolls over, and she’s reaching for Katya all needy.  One arm around her waist, fitting her stomach into the small hourglass of Katya’s side, “That was amazing.”

“I know.” Katya turns her head so she can press a small kiss to Trixie’s forehead, where her foundation is absolutely wrecked, “You’re telling me if we just processed our emotions we could’ve been having freaky sex this whole time?”

It’s not quite that simple, but it makes Trixie snort next to her.

“Stop.”  Trixie’s eyes fall shut, “Just means we’ll have to make up for it.”

Katya’s plotting to ask her to wash off in a moment, when she thinks either of them can stand without immediate collapse.  Whenever they shower together Trixie always hogs the water, and Katya ends up leaning against the tiles and watching her rub soap into her tits like they’re in a bad VHS porn, but that’s the reason why she keeps asking.

Trixie does something, then, that Katya isn’t quite sure how to feel about.  

In a fluid motion she drags Katya’s hand down and places it over her stomach.  Ignoring her first instinct to keep her fingers wandering, find somewhere else to grab (a hip, a waist, a tit, _anything_ ) she lets Trixie move her.  Trixie has this look on her sleepy face, like it’s significant.  Like she thinks this is a step in the right direction.

But honestly?  Katya thinks that there’s nothing much to feel besides skin.  

 

~

 

The next morning Katya wakes with the energy of a thousand espressos, a full night's sleep, and a round of good sex pulsating through her body.  Morning sunlight circulates the room; that hazy type of Los Angeles pollution as if someone threw a thin dusty curtain over the world, and it makes Trixie’s hair, sprawled over the pillow next to her, look even more vibrantly honeycomb than usual.  

She’s fast asleep, so Katya gets out of bed quietly.

In the shower, as she’s bent over shaving with her leg hiked up on the edge of the tub, she takes a moment to consider the unlikely yet possible event that she might be able to get used to this whole thing.

It’s not that she’s incredibly psyched about the concept of having a baby, but it’s... it’s what they’re _doing_.  It’s already inside Trixie, all fucking eighteen weeks of it.  She’d read online that it was the size of a bell pepper and pretty soon, it would start squirming around, and that it would feel like a fish wriggling against open air in her stomach.  The concept gives Katya the creeps outright, but Trixie hasn’t been acting bothered. If anything, she seems to be relaxing into it.

Katya blow dries her hair without fear of waking Trixie up.

The girl long since started sleeping with earplugs in, on account of Katya’s mid-slumber antics.  Even the most fortified of dreamers would’ve done the same, after so many times of being woken up to dissonant Russian phrases being whimpered out from behind ground teeth.  Katya isn’t sure what brings on the dreams besides an overactive imagination and the lingering effects of trying damn-near every drug under the sun. They’re always hard to remember in the mornings.  Glassed-over and fragmented. Not enough information to find the root of any deep-seeded traumas.

It’s just as Katya’s starting up their skillet to fry an egg, energy drink in hand (no need to taunt Trixie with the smell of fresh brewed coffee), that there’s a knock on the door.

If the night before had been an exaltation, this is it’s antidote.  

There’s a kind of jarring urgency to the banging that makes Katya think of someone melting shrink wrap over her skin.  Walls getting an inch smaller. The lines and features of the room folding in on themselves.

They aren’t expecting anyone, but then again, neighbours need cups of sugar sometimes.  

She glances down at herself—her damp hair, silk paisley robe, and black slides.  But, you know, she's not trying to impress anyone.  She unlocks the deadbolt and the chain and pulls the door open a crack. 

Standing in the hallway, Ray-Ban aviators gleaming underneath the fluorescents, is their landlord.  

He’s a portly kind of guy, always wearing these disgusting Hawaiian button-ups like he just got back from Florida.  Pretty much the first person you’d expect to manage a crumbling housing coop. She’s only seen him a handful of times, and never when things are going right.  The last was when he’d asked her and Trixie to give a statement about a non-fatal shooting that happened down the hall, and the time before that, to inform them that the laundry would be down for a long weekend.

“Hey, you go by Katya, right?”  

 _It’s my legal name, jackass,_ she thinks, but just nods in response.

“Thought so.  I got kind of a photographic memory, ‘specially when it comes to names.”

She represses the urge to clap for him derisively.

“Everything good?  Noise complaint?” She asks him, and tries to make it sound friendly.  

It’s almost unimaginable that this visit has something to do with her and Trixie fucking the night before.  Sure, some people are assholes, but everyone living ‘round these parts has thick enough skin to ignore a little full-volume copulation.  If they didn’t, there would be noise complaints about six times a day.

“Nah, nothing like that.  I’m just delivering these in person, in case anyone has any questions.”  He extends his hand, grey hairs encasing his forearm like a goddamn werewolf, holding a bright white envelope.  

“At least it’s not a kissogram.”  Katya says and snatches it out of his hand.

He laughs once.  Then sucks a breath in through his teeth.

“Lease is up in two months.”

“The lease is always up, and we always renew it, you know that.”  Katya slips her fingernail under the adhesive and tears the letter open.  She feels like she’s gutting a fish. Trying not to let her hands shake like they sometimes tend to do, when she has the feeling life is about to take a turn towards shit creek.

Inside, there’s an official looking letterhead, and beneath it, some legal jargon.  It’s a whole paragraph, but Katya gets the picture pretty quick.

_Tenant: this is a notice that come December 20th, the monthly rent of this establishment within which you reside will increase to some bullshit number, due to the fact that I’m a greedy asshole.  Thank you for your cooperation._

The price they have listed in bold numbering is almost as much as what they make in a month.  Combined.

Katya looks back up at him.

“What the _fuck_ is this?”  She snaps, but immediately regrets raising her voice, and glances over her shoulder to see that Trixie is still fast asleep.  No need to wake her up to the sound of Katya going ape on their proprietor.

She steps outside of the door, shutting it behind them.

“Listen, we can’t... we can’t afford that.”

She meant it to sound firm, but it just comes across broken down.

“It’s nothing personal, it’s the whole complex.”  He’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ear that he keeps palming with dirty fingers.  It adds a certain kind of impatience to her stress.

“And you’re asking how much for this piece of shit?”  

Katya glances around the hall, walls slick with humidity and mold, seeping out of the cracks in the foundation.  At the rust-stained handlebars of the stairwell. The cardboard duct taped over broken windows.

“I get what you mean.”  He sighs, and pulls the cig from behind his ear to start twirling it between his index and his thumb, “I _really_ get what you mean, but you gotta’ understand, this neighborhood’s changing.  They just opened a yoga studio down the street. And a matcha cart.”

_A matcha cart?_

_O_ _h, excuse me while I step into my Lexus._  

Katya laughs in the back of her throat.  

It’s bitter.  The sound of her choking on her own stupid hope that things would be okay.

“My girlfriend’s pregnant.”  She breathes suddenly. Oversharing?  Yes, most definitely. But it’s all she can do to keep herself from sinking down to the dense concrete and giving begging a try, “You’re gonna’ put us out on the streets.”

He pauses then again.  Like maybe there’s a tinge of humanity that he’s feeling; that he’s trying to muscle through.  Then, he shakes his head.

“Listen, I honestly don’t understand this… whatever you guys have going on.”  He starts, looking in the direction of her closed front door. “I’m not tryna’ be funny, it really doesn’t make sense to me.  I actually _like_ you guys as tenants, you never brought drugs or guns into the building, and I’m grateful for that.”  He wouldn’t know, even if they had, “But just because you’re having a hard time doesn’t mean you’re out of the lease.”

It has an air of finality that, in spite of her headstrong my-way-or-the-highway approach to life, she can’t argue with, so she drops the letter on the ground and turns on her heel to make her way back inside.

He doesn’t try and stop her.  Probably dealing with his twentieth pissed-off impoverished person of the day.  Probably just thankful she didn’t try and throw hands.

Katya closes the door behind herself.  

For all it’s worth, she’s keeping her hands steady, but the world is spinning.  Floor tiles teetering on an imagined axis. The mental image of his mangled cigarette still running through her mind, telling her that maybe if she just goes for a smoke, she can solve this mess.

She’s not sure at what point she hears Trixie calling out her name on the far end of the room.

She looks up dumbfounded.  On the edge of the bed, Trixie’s just getting to her feet, loose pink t-shirt bunched up around the curve of her stomach.  Even sleepy, and still rubbing her eyes, she seems excited. Her feet move across the floor quickly, and once she makes it to the kitchen, an adorable smile spreads across her face.

“Katya, I felt it moving!” She sounds over the moon.  Walks right up to Katya and pats her tummy once. “It’s just a little, but I felt it moving.”

Katya’s mouth hangs open.

What does someone even _do_ in such a situation?  Keep it from her?  Keep _another_ thing from her, and try to load up her own shoulders with as much stress as she can, until she inevitably caves in?  

Trixie’s hair is falling wild into her eyes.  A little soft around the edges.  Her expression fades when she sees the way Katya is looking at her, at last taking note of the fear that no amount of good acting and strong-wills could repress.

Trixie removes her hand from her own stomach; instead touches Katya’s shoulder with three delicate fingers, and asks, god-awfully unaware and stupidly optimistic.

“Babe, what’s wrong?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More traumatic backstory. Also sorry Trixie literally... isn't in this chapter at all. The plot misses her constant loveliness.

The catalyst for what doctors would eventually refer to as clinically-diagnosed transsexualism, as Katya experienced it, and what her father had pinned as the key reason that his child ending up such a goddamn pussy, was one hot-coffee-grippin’ bitch of a freezing night in early October.  

Nothing turned her into a lesbian. There was no switch flipped, or bad influence no-good rotten women trying to lure her to a different side of the tracks; if anything, she was born a lesbian.  A particularly unlucky one, at that, but God… there’s a world of difference between feeling like a boy wishing you could be a woman, and realizing that you already are.

It was a neighbourhood Katya liked to haunt with her sophomore year girlfriend.  Evasive and undercover, they’d go out on Friday nights, her companion oblivious as Katya dived into her super-secret leather-jacket-sporting butch girl fantasy.  They had nothing to do other than fuck around on the strip, and pass by all the gay bars she wasn’t old enough to enter, like they were window shopping, and as if she’d be welcome inside them anyways.  Her girlfriend, Angie, didn’t understand Katya’s affinity for the rainbow-gutter city blocks and glitter-caked trash cans. Indulged her only because it carried a little bit of subculture rebelliance. _Stick it to the man, fruitcake style!_

It was well past the witching hour, and all the clubs were beginning to expel their contents one stumbling drunkard at a time.  They poured out of the guarded entryways like swarms of bees. So driven, so dead-set on finding something else to do.

Katya and Ang been walking past a matchbox performance hall that echoed back to the beginning of drag balls; home of gold lamé turbans and go-go boots, bangles and bras three sizes too large.  There was an audible dogfight a few blocks down, the now-wayward party people clashing with the street rats and winos. The half-unhinged wood door of the club, cradled by an awning and illuminated by an overhead lamp, swung open just as Angie stopped in place with her lighter in-hand, flicking it over and over, desperately, while it sparked and blew out in the wind.

Katya remembers seeing her head first.  

Stark bald with a single curl of black hair dipping down between manicured eyebrows.  And a fur coat that could kill. Literally, looked like it had been skinned the week before and dipped in madder root.  She was a full foot and a half taller than Katya, but carried herself with the poise and precision of none other than a woman, as strobe lights and steam leaked out from the depths of the bar.  

Katya liked to think that she could always tell the difference.  Between the impersonators and the people who truly lived it.

Her eyes had lingered on Katya for a fraction of a moment, before she raised two long fingers and curled them.

“You.”  Her voice was intense.  Dark brandy, black diamond, the way a lion’s lip curls before it takes down a gazelle, that kind of thing,  “Come here for a moment, I have a question.”

Katya had all but abandoned her girlfriend on the corner of the city block, who was busy crouching down trying to light a match on the concrete after her zippo had apparently run out of gas.  Probably didn’t even realize she was crouching alone.

Once Katya was close enough to get a good look at her, she also caught sight of the two other women huddled in the shadows underneath the awning of the club like ground-level gargoyles.  Fresh out of a greenroom. Sharing a cigarette and whispering back and forth; a table-tennis game of gossip.

“Would you say…”  The woman reached out her hand, wringing her wrist where a small bracelet clung in the shape of a snake eating its own tail, “...that this is green, or blue?  I’m trying to win a bet.”

She flicked Katya a smile after the said it, and pointed with one long fingernail to the eye of the snake.  A gem, delicately carved into silver metal. Katya studied it hard for a moment before saying decidedly, “Green.”

The woman sighed and rolled her eyes over to the other two, holding her hands out in a ‘thems the facts’ kind of gesture.

“See?”  She goaded, and then turned back to Katya with a wicked smirk that reached the corners of her eyes, where her eyeliner began to crinkle oh so subtly.

Katya cleared her throat.

“How much did you win?”

Her voice shook slightly against the cold air running down her chest.

“Not nearly enough.”  The woman replied, and pulled her coat in close to herself, slowly, to ward off a new gust of wind coming from the current-carrying alleyways,  “What’s your name?”

Katya toyed with the notion of truth.  

But then again, the truth sucked ass.

“Yekaterina.”  

A name that had previously only been scribbled on receipt paper in Cyrillic and then thrown away.  A name that she’d said out loud, touching herself, trying to figure out if it was an obsessive fantasy rather than a self-actualization.  

She took note of the woman’s pause.  The once-over she gave, her eyes picking apart Katya’s leather jacket, her t-shirt and jeans, her hi-tops, the whole fucking tomboy ensemble.

“Yekaterina?”  She repeated it with a heavy Russian accent suddenly rolling across her tongue, taking Katya by surprise, “Lovely name for a young lady.”

_Oh._

The words made Katya’s goddamn heart stop.

Once the woman was done with her appraisal, she reached out slowly to take Katya’s hand in her own, and gave it one slow shake.

“ _Ya_ _Sasha_.” Her hand felt like it was enveloped in a satin glove, but miraculously, was bare apart from her bracelet.

 _God, she was probably coming across like a deer in headlights._  

Katya shook off the stillness, and put on her best shit-eating grin.  No need to be a fucking lunatic about it.

“ _Privet._ ”  

One of Sasha’s cohorts, hand on hip, clicked her teeth and ashed a cigarette.

“Leave the twink _alone_ , honey, you’re scaring him.”

Sasha looked over her shoulder again, and scoffed at her, but in a chummy way.  Like they would go share a cocktail about it later.

“I’m sorry that the company I’m keeping tonight isn’t… more civilized.”  She sighed, turning back to Katya and rolling her shoulders once. ” _Ostavaytes' krasivymi, dorogaya_ _._ ”

Katya wanted to ask if she would be there again next weekend.  If she knew a back entrance Katya could slip through unnoticed.  Never seen a drag show in her life, just spent a lot of time peering in through the open doorways like a hungry little orphan on Christmas eve.  But her patience for at-a-distance admiration was growing thin. She had to get at least a little sip of whatever they were having.

Before she could get anything out, any questions, Sasha was turning on one sharp mule heel and gesturing for the other women to follow her down the shatter-glass street towards a fresh enclave. _Someone’s apartment.  Her apartment, maybe?_

Katya fixated on the way they shifted through the late night crowd like flowers.  Wilting, wilting, and wilting until they disappeared back into the wild.

“Hey, Mitya, it worked!” In the distance, her girlfriend, calling out with pride as she held the lit match up to her face and sucked the flame into the far end of a cigarette. “Can we go get food now?”

~

 

In Boston, Katya lived in a two-bedroom with her father.  It was one of those rare houses not yet converted into apartment-style quarterage, slowly being eaten away by black mold, and in desperate need of re-roofing.  She remembers a constantly oil-slick table mat in the kitchen. Cigarette burns pressed through yellow plastic on the side where he usually sat in the mornings.  Her bed, a single, with a baseball-pattern comforter. Large posters clinging to her walls by peeling tape, taking chips of paint with it. She had one featuring Joan Jett and The Blackhearts, and another that she’d picked up at a thrift store, Debbie Harry in her early modeling days.

It was a homestead wrought with terror.  Constant terror; that’s what Katya remembers most vividly when she dares to recall anything prior to her adulthood.

At seventeen, Katya had been blessed with nothing other than being a late bloomer.  It was the only aspect of life convincing her that she hadn’t been abandoned by God entirely.  Voice slow to drop, face smooth as a fucking angel’s ass, and absolutely no real muscle to show for herself, aside from a bit of definition in her arms earned by handstands.  Legs up against the wall and face turning red out of boredom.

She whipped through the streets on those skinny borderline prepubescent legs, the night she left home (and bitch, that was putting it _gently_ ).  

She ran until she was sure she was gonna have an asthma attack, even though she didn’t have asthma.  Never say never, though; after she cleared six blocks and found herself pressed up against the metal wiring of an alley fence, bolt-cut and sharp at its brim, she still tried to keep her breathing quiet.  Slowly sucking in mouthfuls of the hardened megalopolitan air.

Her nose dripped bright red onto her shirt.  Fallout from the one hit she hadn’t been able to dodge.  

She looked down at herself, clothes bespattered with blood and soil, and in that moment of chaotic dissonance, laughed.  Threw her head back against the fence and laughed.

It was painful, but she was free.

_Katya.  Katya._

She repeated it over and over in her head.

_My name is Katya._

There’s a lot of rotten places she could’ve ended up that night.  Bad backseats and strangers couches; high and dislocated from her wits, or hopelessly fishing for a friend whose bed she could call her own, but at a price.   

Lots of worse places, almost _all_ other places, she could’ve ended up that night, than the front door of Casa Velour.

_Who on God’s green earth could see her once and forget about it, you know?_

The night after they met, Katya had returned to the club and given the bouncer a whole unopened pack of cigarettes in exchange for an answer to the simple question of where Sasha was performing next.  She could tell he was kind of disappointed Katya wasn’t offering a blowjob on the side, but had eventually pointed her in the direction of a club called Cubism.

“You’re into that avant garde kind of shit?”  He’d asked, rolling his eyes, “She doesn’t even wear wigs.”

Katya could wiggle her way into any pigeon hole she wanted to.  Through the window to the ladies water closet, or the employees-only entrance while it’s swung open for a second and a half.  

It hadn’t been too hard to get into the same room as Sasha again.  

Katya’s ticket was on the coattails of a particularly large group of bachelorettes, slithering underneath their high-heeled cloud of excitement and oblivion as the bouncer checked all their out-of-state IDs for flaws.  Once inside, it hadn’t been too hard to find Sasha after the show, either. She remembers coming up to her side-stage, getting her attention by giving her a two-finger salute, shaking her head a little awestruck and saying, honestly, “Girl, I have _so_ many questions for you. _”_

That was almost a year prior.

They hadn’t exactly become close.  If anything, she was pretty sure Sasha felt sorry for her.  But Katya bad been dutifully smuggled into her fair share of clubs, and invited back to Sasha’s apartment enough times that she had memorized the route, and that’s how it came to be her door that Katya knocked on, instead of anyone else’s.

Sasha answered in the expected manner.  

Bathed in casual regality, floor-length red robe brushing against the wet rim of the door where it had begun to rain.  

Oh, it was _awful._

Katya stood in front of her drenched, head freshly shaven and blood still visible where it had begun caking on her upper lip.  

Sasha had no reason to let in vermin from the streets.  Katya’s problems were not her problems and they had no reason to be, but still... after a moment, she stepped back with the door held open wide, “Come on in, darling,” falling from her lips.

The apartment was hard to accurately describe.  

Kind of like a diorama you’d find behind plexiglass in a baroque museum.  Ancient and sprawling with wall-to-wall red, thick shag carpet, golden accents adorning every knob and clawed foot.  

Somehow the decor still always came across as sharp.  Not like a relic, but something never-before-seen, and a little twisted.

It was two hours later that Katya found herself wrapped up like a baby in a deep blue satin robe, cross-legged on Sasha’s pull-out couch, fresh out of the bath, and blinking against a mascara brush as Sasha held her chin with one incredibly soft hand.

Knowingly Sasha had let her pick out a wig.  Contrary to the belief of one brash bouncer, she did wear them, and had anticipated Katya wasn’t exactly feeling her new haircut.  Full fantasy, right? It was simple and shoulder-length with long bangs falling into her eyes. Her eyes that were, whether she liked it or not, beginning to bloom with dark circle bruises that Sasha’s concealer was successfully masking.

“You _have_ to have done your own makeup before.”  Sasha mused, eyes unfocused as she capped the mascara and began picking through a box of lip colors, all gold and red, and clicking against each-other.

“Well, yeah, but not like you do makeup.”  

Even in her evening state, Sasha had on foundation, and a smudge of deep brown over her eyelid. _Classy bitch._

“I had no idea what I was doing when I was your age.”

It was comforting to hear, but it also sounded like a lie.  So easy to picture Sasha emerging from the womb with big fake lashes, not crying, just half-lidded eyes and a trembling upper lip.

Sasha finished their little session, like a pageant mom dolling up a stubborn brat, by painting in Katya’s lips shimmering burgundy.  She filled them in slowly, using a small pointed brush to swing up and over Katya’s cupid’s bow, and draw her bottom lip down even further.  

“There.”  She finished, dropping the brush into a shallow cup filled with rubbing alcohol that instantly turned beet red, and pointed towards the mirror behind Katya.  A full-length leaning up against the wall. “Tell me what you think.”

_Alright, showtime._

Katya exhaled, put on her best pouty-face, turned around and .... _shit_.

She remembers gasping out loud.  

And grabbing her face to make sure that she was truly looking at herself, and not some old oil-painting titled ‘Scared Little Russian Girl Sits On Floor, 1832’.

“Oh my god. I look _beautiful_.”  

She got to her knees and tilted her head from one side, to the other, little stiff locks of blonde brushing her shoulders.  The robe made her look particularly flat-chested, but so were lots of other chicks; in fact, so was Jodie Foster at her age, and she made it work, and so could Katya.  Regular ol’ teenage girl style.

She turned back to Sasha, carpet burning her knees, and placed a hand on her hip all sultry,  “Whaddya think? Would you fuck me?”

“ _Stop_.”

Despite her exasperation, she could tell there was a hint of...something in Sasha’s voice.  Pride, maybe, as she picked up her little makeup carry-case in her hand, standing and brushing off the edge of her robe where some loose powder had collected.

It was the best of nights, and in many other ways, the worst of nights.  And now, twenty odd years later, she still has the same fucking feeling.

Lost in the dark.  

In search of a doorstep.

The difference is, Katya currently has a full head of au natural hair, and nobody has burned her clothes in a hot minute (although she could probably name a few blouses she owns that Trixie would like to torch).  

Daily Los Angeles lows have an edge to them now that summer is turning to fall, but they’re still nothing compared to the shit she recalls from Novembers spent in boston.

Katya’s wrapped up in a plush black coat, and if the rest of her body is cold (exposed legs, thin fingers, the tip of her nose), she can’t feel it behind the Svedka.  About five shots deep, and scurrying through the street with a furious determination to reach Violet’s apartment in record time.

She knows how she looks.

Red-eyed.  Makeup running as far as her cheekbones, lipstick partly chewed off by her nervous lip-biting habit, hair and clothes reeking of the cigarettes she’d chain smoked, so much for the concept of quitting.

She buzzes in at the front door and hisses _let me in, cunt_ into the receiver in lieu of a greeting.  

Violet doesn’t answer right away.  

It has Katya thinking she finally started up popping temazepam again, and won’t hear shit, but after a few seconds of static, the door does click open for Katya to dive inside.  And dive she does. Even with her blurry vision and unsteady legs, she climbs the steps without a moment's hesitation.

By the time Katya scales the stairs, Violet already has the door swung open, with a measly yellow glow hitting the back of her towel-wrapped head.  All her makeup is gone, and she has trace fragments of what looks like seaweed unwashed around the perimeter of her scalp. Dressed in just a black robe.  She glances Katya up and down, face stuck somewhere between pity and fear. Then, she reaches out and grabs Katya’s arm.

“Get inside.”

As Violet pulls her through the door, it makes Katya stumble and kick her feet like she’s sedated.  It’s fine. Violet knows how to handle her like this, better than anyone.

The loft is dark except for a single lamp near the window.  It’s glowing like a beacon, painting Violet’s armchair with light where it looks like she had been reading.  The door slides shut behind them, and suddenly, it sounds the city has been plunged underwater.

“Is Fame here?”  Katya asks, and kicks off her shoes one at a time.

Violet is already stomping to the kitchen and grabbing a glass out of her cabinet.  She fills it with water, and slides it across the counter towards Katya.

“No.  She’s in San Fran this weekend.”  Violet explains, and then after a moment of observing Katya’s unresponsiveness, flicks the glass with her fingernail,  “Drink that.”

The ding echoes in the room.

Katya reaches forward and grasps the cup, brings it to her lips, takes a small sip, but can’t get much more down.  Violet watches her do it with a hardened look, that quickly turns concerned as Katya hiccups once and rubs charcoal from underneath her eyes.

“Is it… is it about the baby?”

Katya goes still for a moment.  A pang of pain in her chest keeping the words tied up.  

As if it’s part of someone else’s body, she realizes that Violet’s hand has closed around her own, and it’s cool in the place where her little silver engagement ring gleams against pale skin.

“That’s actually the worst part.”  Katya breathes, dipping her head down so she doesn’t have to look Violet in the eyes, “It’s not about the fuckin’ baby.”

The hum of Violet’s fridge makes the silences between them even more pronounced.

“What’s going on?”

Violet’s thumb rubs over her knuckles.   

Distantly, it makes Katya think of an alternate reality where her and Violet had become more than just fuckbuddies.  Like, _dating_ dating.  God, what a mess _that_ would be.  Violet, with her neurotic neatness and attention to detail, the pit in her stomach that can only be filled by being in absolute control.  And Katya, with all her fucking slob-like lifestyle choices, low levels of predictability, and tendency to smoke out the window after she's been asked not to. No way they’d end up with Violet in her evening wear and wedding band, comforting Katya over biscuits and tea.  They’d fucking kill each other.

“We gotta’ move.”  Katya says, “They’re raising the rent, _again_.”    

“Fuckers.”  

Violet grips her hand a little tighter.  But of course she doesn’t have any advice.  That’s life; everyone's doing the same stupid dance.  

“I don’t know what we’re gonna’ do.”  Katya can feel herself falling into that good old tailspin again.  Letting her guard way, way down now that she’s in kindred company, and she sucks in a breath to try and physically pull the tears back into her body somehow, but it doesn’t work, and she can feel the last traces of the mascara on her bottom lashes being washed away.

“You always figure something out.”  Violet says gently, “You’re a crafty old bitch like that.”

“Fuck all the way off.”  A faint smile pulls at Katya’s mouth, but it doesn’t last long.  Swallowed by the feeling of being in freefall.  The knowledge that it's not just her own livelihood on the line, but Trixie's, as well as a third person that isn't even a whole entire person, yet.  “Vi, I’m bad at this.”  Katya whispers, it like it’s a fact that they’ve all been trying to ignore. _Like really, didn’t you see this coming?_ Of course stability would continue its elusive waltz away from her, “I’m bad at life, bad at being a woman, bad at being a girlfriend, I’m gonna be a fucking _horrible_ mom…”  

“Hey, stop.”  

Katya could go on and on, but she shuts her mouth.  Her knuckles are white around Violet’s hand.

“There’s only one person allowed to talk mad shit about you in this house, and that’s me.”   Violet says bluntly, Katya nods. She lets go of Violet’s hand so that she can dab underneath her own eyes with two fingers.  “You need to sleep this off, you’re gonna feel better tomorrow.”

“She doesn’t deserve this.”  Katya cradles her own face in two hands.  Staring, burning a hole in the countertop with her gaze, and even though she knows that it makes Violet want to gag, she continues, “I love her so much.  I swear, anyone else and I woulda’ split months ago.”

A joke just teetering in the edge of truth.

“Well, I’m _so_ proud of you...”  Violet’s voice is teasing again, and she gets up from the counter and turns on her electric kettle, “...for, you know, not abandoning your pregnant lover.”

Katya laughs dismally.

“Hey, we still got four and a half months to go, you never know.”

Despite the fact that if she was truly prioritizing being a trustworthy and reliable girlfriend, partner, confidante, and mommy-to-be, she would’ve been sober by Trixie’s side the whole miserable night… Katya spends the night on Violet’s couch.

 

~

 

The block prior to the costume shop is dusted with chalk.  Bright swooping patterns and abandoned hopscotch games. There’s even little piles of contraband where the kids have left their chalk sticks like roaches next to the cracks in the pavement.  Must’ve gotten new packs. It happens a lot - many of the storefronts double as residences, and west lies a project with about twenty units. Ironically enough, poor people seem to be the best at making babies.  Katya figures it’s all the rage and frustration at the hamster wheel of life driving them to just plough the pain away. Or straight up stupidity. After all, she was the dumb bitch who fucked her girlfriend for five years and never once stopped to consider that they were in danger of an unhappy accident.

A night away from home helped.  A night away from Trixie’s worried little glances, and the way she tends to stare off into space with one hand on her stomach like she’s thinking, hard.  Too hard.

Katya trekked right from Violets place to work and, as an apology for the meltdown, is fixing to either pick Trixie a street-weed bouquet of daisies on the way home, or buy her one of her weird craving foods, like blueberry muffins and peanut butter.

One day she hopes she can start buying Trixie real things.  Big things. Adult shit. A car, or a trip to Hawaii, or that stupid fucking expensive mascara she likes to wear.

When Katya reaches the storefront, intending to make her usual full-flare appearance, she gives the handle a solid tug only to feel the two slats of glass wobble against each other and grind on their hinges.  

_Huh._

Katya tries it again for good measure, and then brings her hand up to wrap on the glass.  

It’s a minute past opening, so either Jean-Claude overslept again, or she missed a text big time.  Just to be thorough, she makes a second attempt to knock, but hears nothing except the general noise of the outdoors.  Grinding skateboard wheels, and people shouting at each other between their hi-rise kitchen windows.

Katya pulls out her phone and scrolls down to the V contacts, hits call while she pulls out a smoke and rests it between her teeth.

It rings twice, she sparks her lighter, and then there’s a click.

“If you’re trying to get me to cover your shift a minute after it started, I’m killing you.”

Katya laughs around her cigarette filter.

“Like to see you try!  If I’ve made it this far I’m definitely immortal.”  She inhales the first dregs and then snatches the cigarette between her fingers, “The stores not open, did Jean say anything about a day off?”

“No, he didn’t.”  Vixen says, tone drifting towards suspicious,  “It’s really not open?”

“Yeah, I’m here and the front door’s locked.  And I kind of…” Katya’s brain flashes back to three months earlier, when she had been digging through her purse and accidentally dropped the store key through the gutter.  Meant to tell Jean-Claude about it, but kept forgetting, and thinking it was fine, because she never used it anyways, “...I misplaced my key.”

There’s a short silence.  The sounds of the slow drawling cars, and laundry being shaken out of overhead balconies, drying fast and stiff in the sun, even though it’s technically fall now.

“God damnit.”  She can picture the expression on Vixen’s face.  Pure exasperation, “I’ll be there in twenty.”

 

~

 

When Vixen arrives, Katya’s in the middle of a long drawn-out texting conversation with Trixie where she’s playing the stable one.  

Saying all the right things like _you don’t have to worry_ and _just focus on you and the baby, I can take care of everything else_.  Calm.  Understanding.  Even mentioning that Violet had offered them temporary housing in her loft if they needed it, just until they found something more affordable.  

She hadn’t actually offered it, but Katya knows that she can strongarm that bitch into anything.

Katya looks up from underneath her sunglasses at Vixen, who has the aura of any college student having to give up their Saturday morning to do someone a favor.  Hungover and vexed. Rocking big gold hoop earrings and a t-shirt that literally just says ‘fuck you’.

“Still nothing?”  Vixen asks as she takes out her key, and feeds it into the gaping rusted metal.  

Katya stubs the remainder of her cigarette out on the brick wall, and lets it fall to the ground.

“Not a peep.”

They swing the doors open, and Vixen heads inside first.  

The lights aren’t on, and it makes all the mannequins look slightly foreboding.  Stationary, yet ready to spring to life at any moment if Katya’s life somehow turned into a full-fledged horror flick while she was asleep.

As she crosses the threshold behind the counter, she hears the telltale whine of old pipes.  And a hissing noise. Definitely a shower; vibrations carrying strong through the floorboards.  

“Ah, fuck.  Maybe he forgot to set his clocks forward.  I’ll go get him.” Katya offers, happy to spare Vixen the possibility of seeing an eighty year old sack of blubber stepping out of the tub. 

“ _Great_.  Let me know when I can leave, please.”  Vixen prods, hands on her hips and leaning along the far wall.

The flight of stairs lie in the very back, past storage.  They’re carpeted. A thick strip of rotted paisley that folds over each wooden step, all the way up to the small platform in front of Jean-Claude’s front door.  He never locks it; something Katya always said would get him straight-up robbed one day, but she’s thankful now. Thankful she doesn’t have to whip out her shamefully sharp lock-picking skills.

She pushes the door open and makes a little knocking sound on the doorframe.

“Hey, grandpa, _réveiller!  Tu as du travail!”_

His front room is somewhere between old cat lady and bachelor pad.  He has a rigorously curated collection of chipped and tarnished antique tea wares stored in tightly-pressed display cabinets on the walls, a large round-table packed high with newspapers from the last ten years, wicker chairs that threaten to snap if sat in.  Katya often times pictures him up here, smoking a calabash gourd pipe and flipping through 1980’s copies of Playgirl.

Man, if she had a place like this, she’d make it her _bitch_.

She weaves around the odd boxes and discarded dust-covered objects on the ground, making her way towards the bathroom door, open a crack and leaking off-yellow light.  

There’s steam pouring out of the top like a chimney.  As she presses on the frame with her hand, nails hitting the wood first, she can clearly see through the crack inside, where the sink is running.  An old pomade and shaving brush laying on it’s side, clogging the drain, and causing water to bubble up and spill over the smooth porcelain edges. It clings to the base of the sink in rivets and washes out over the tiles. 

_Shit._

A bowling ball of worry slips down into her stomach, and she nudges the door open another few inches, until it bumps against something halfway.  

Katya closes her eyes.  Swallows.  Wants to turn back more than fucking anything, but ultimately huffs out a steadying breath and forces herself to look down at the ground, searching for the cause of the door stoppage.

It's not the first dead body she’s ever seen.

A month after she’d moved in with Trixie, almost four years ago now, someone on the top floor had died of an overdose.  They carried her body out on a stretcher, and the elevator had been broken, so everyone came out of their apartments to watch the morbid spectacle of the gurney being dragged down the concrete steps, banging into the platforms on every level.  As it had passed over the third floor, where Katya and Trixie were leaning in the doorframe in their pajamas holding cups of green tea and trying to not make eye contact with any of the EMTs, the cloth covering her body had snagged on a protruding nail in the framework of the wall.  It tugged off just enough that her upper half sprung free.

She was awfully grey.  Probably a few days had passed before she’d been found.  Katya remembers grabbing onto Trixie’s arm and turning her away so she wouldn’t get such a good look at the swollen face.  The bruising on her arms. The hair damp with sweat, and god knows what else. Trixie had mumbled a little _oh, God_ into her shoulder and then walked back inside the apartment.  But Katya, despite a churning stomach, had stayed to watch them pull the blanket back over the table and begin carting it once again.

But that was a stranger, and this is different.

“Katya?”

It’s Vixen’s voice from the other room.  Echoing through the house over the sound of the shower water hitting the tub endlessly, and Katya turns away from the door, pressing one hand over her mouth.  She has to cough once to find her voice.

“You gotta’ call an ambulance.”

Her voice breaks on the last word, but Vixen hears it.

There's a lifeless resonance blooming upstairs.  It’s harrowing. Something Katya desperately wants to run from.  Dull, seeping out of the now waterlogged bathroom, down the hall, and into the recesses of the store that they work at.  

_Or, worked at._

_Yeah. That sounds more like it._

For the first time in years Katya feels tempted to visit a Church.  Not to pray, just to give the holy trinity a piece of her fucking mind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of softness bc they deserve it.

The first piece of maternity clothing Trixie’s bit the bullet and thrifted herself is a dress.  

It cinches right around her upper ribs, made of this toffee-nosed linen that would give an Anthropologie manager a semi, and hanging off the shoulder slightly.  Something like a caftan. It’s beige. That part had surprised Katya too. Not that she isn’t down for the bubblegum fantasy seven days a week, three hundred sixty five days out of the fuckin’ year, but it’s always a teensy bit exciting when Trixie changes things up.  

The bayfront is cold, and half-immersed in evening blues and purples.  The only real warmth is still simmering off the pavement; leftover scraps of heat clinging to concrete for dear life.  As for the water, it’s murky. Polluted. Dotted with bright points of light where the fishmongers and yacht-owners have started flicking on their warning lanterns against the dusk.  Trixie brought a blanket for them to sit on, and a second one to wrap around their shoulders, but the sand has been sticking to the plush fabric in clumps, and at one point, they had to start brushing beach-spiders off the places where they’d begun to claw their way towards Trixie’s bare feet.

Katya kind of can’t take her eyes off her.

Hair down, curled into Katya’s side, eyelids shimmering rose-gold.  Her face is split-lit only by the pervasive glow of the strip. Burning bright, brash, and proud; all the late-night storefronts staying open to catch tourists in a trap before they retire to their Hilton suites.  

Despite the knee-deep bullshit situation that they’re in, Trixie seems happy in this moment, and that’s enough for Katya.  It’s easier to forget about the minutiae of her own misery and immerse herself in those full cheeks, and crows feet at the edges of her eyes when she smiles.  

“Do I have ice cream on my mouth?”

It’s too cold to be eating it, but Trixie wanted some, so, two sugar cones for the happy couple.  That’s what you do when you’re a whipped bitch.

“You know if you want me to kiss you, you can just say ‘kiss me’, and then I’ll kiss ya’, right?”  Katya suggests as she reaches forward and tips Trixie’s chin up with two fingers.

Trixie makes this innocent expression (all _who, me?_ ), a small trace of vanilla prominently white and growing sticky on her bottom lip.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

It’s enough to make Katya roll her eyes.

_Such a brat._

She leans down slow, trying not to let the steady rolling wind toss any hair into her face.  Her tongue touches Trixie’s lip first. Licking from one corner of her mouth to the other. It’s the kind of thing she’d make fun of a different couple for doing, on a beach, on a weeknight, but it’s easy to get this kind of snowglobe feeling when they’re together.  Last lesbians on earth. Carefree and without spectators.

From afar, they probably look pretty well-rounded; even mirthful.  Picnicking as if it’s their anniversary. Trixie’s bump, visible no matter what kind of clothes she wears, and her tits spilling out of all her necklines like she’s a particularly snatched fertility statue.  

They break apart right as a gull lands a few feet away from them and starts enthusiastically digging up a piece of someone’s discarded soggy bagel tangled with a piece of seaweed.

“Would you ever let me fuck you on a beach?”  Katya muses as she runs her fingers through Trixie’s hair, flattened by the damp coastal winds.

“Oh yeah, sand in my vagina, that sounds hot.  Let’s do it now.” Trixie deadpans.

“ _Hm_.  Sand fetish.”  Katya nods, and looks out over the dicy waves, chopping together over the surface of the marbled water, “I learn new shit about you every day.”

Katya pulls the blanket tight around her shoulders.  She ditched her own ice cream about ten minutes ago, but still, she should’ve brought a jacket.  Not sure how Trixie’s munching on the edge of the sugar cone like it’s dinner.

The last sliver of sun breathes light over the sand.  Warm, fleetingly so, it illuminates broken glass and clear rock, all of it flashing like scattered diamonds in amongst an otherwise littered seaboard, coated with used condoms and candy wrappers.

All of a sudden, Trixie jumps next to her.   

“Oh _wow_ , feel this.”

She grabs Katya’s hand frantically and brings it to her stomach. _Ah yes, this routine._  Like someone banging on the taught surface of a drum, there’s a… a movement.  Over, over, and over, steady and noticeable; the pulse of a concert hall floor underneath her skin.

The kicking started up a couple days ago, and Trixie can’t seem to stop making Katya partake in it as well.  Feel every time like it’s the first time.

“Girl, how does that not freak you the fuck out?”  Katya asks. Her hand rests a little unsteady, absorbing the way the baby seizes inside her.  

“It kind of does.”  Trixie grins, “But it’s also cool.  At least I know it has legs and it’s not a stillborn.”

“Very cool.  Hate stillborns.”  

Trixie makes a scoffing sound in the back of her throat.

“I know, at least live before you die, it’s anticlimactic.”

Seemingly all at once, the sun slips underneath the horizon.  All the warm colors and beautiful hues are syphoned out of the sky in favor of one bleak blue tone, promising a grey and partially cloud-filled night.  It’s cold again. The seagull next to them abandons it’s feast of one wet bagel, and departs in the direction of a hot dog cart.

Trixie’s eyes follow its flight, and her shoulders slump down towards the ground.

“I should cancel the ultrasound.”  She sighs.

“What, why?”  

Katya knits her eyebrows together.  They are dwindling pretty close to absolute rock-bottom penniless, but they’re not there _yet_.  And if Katya really puts her nose to the ground and figures something out, they won’t ever have to be.

“We can’t afford it.” Trixie says matter-of-factly,  “We could put that two hundred into a deposit on a new apartment.”

_Cool shit, but we haven’t found a new fucking apartment._

She’s hesitant to say that Trixie’s right.  That they should be counting every extra dollar a blessing.  But still, two hundred will never be the difference between them finding a place or not.  Katya would weather a thousand ugly walks through a billion red light districts to keep them on their feet, she really would; and she’s not about to find out too late that their baby is somehow eating Trixie’s organs, or that there’s four of them.

“No.  This is important.  It’s like… making sure that it actually has legs and not cancer-ridden talons fucking around in there.”  Katya pokes her stomach once, and Trixie screws up her face.

Besides, Katya knows Trixie’s a little juiced up about it.  Eager to see a new set of fingers pop up on that blurry imaging machine.  Eager to be told that the kid is healthy, in fine fettle, destined to be born head-first and everything.  

Motherhood is working for her.  A whole hell of a lot more than it’s working for Katya, who—in wake of potentially losing their apartment, and, oh yeah, her boss fucking _dying_ without so much as a gnarled cough to serve as a warning—has taken to burning through two packs a day, and drinking herself to sleep when she can schmooze the owner of the area liquor store into giving her a small bottle of Fleischmanns for free.  

She’s pretty sure he’s developing a crush.  Katya never brings up the fact that she’s already spoken for when she’s trying to twist someone’s arm.

“Will you make that soup again when we get home?”  Trixie asks next to her, releasing Katya’s hand now that the baby has apparently fallen back into stillness.

Katya smiles.

“The _zelyoniye shchi_?”

“I’m not saying that, but yeah.”

Katya leans in and presses her face into Trixie’s hair.  She is warm where Katya is not. Blithe where Katya feels dread.  Sober. Practical. Optimistic. Brave in the face of their fucked-up maybe-probably-definitely-cursed human condition.  

 _Anything you want,_ Katya thinks wordlessly as she closes her eyes against the stinging wind, and leans into her girlfriend’s shoulder. _Anything in the world that you want._

~

The EMTs for all they’re worth had pronounced Jean-Claude dead on the scene, right in front of Katya and Vixen like it was a regular day at the office.  Bagged and tagged, body wheeled into the car, sped off to wherever they take the unclaimed cadavers. There didn’t seem to be much of a due process beyond that.   And why _would_ there be?  The fucker was pushing his mid-eighties, ate nothing but pastries, fucked bareback, and smoked every day of his life.

One nervous on-site medical attendant with blue hair and a lip ring had said it was probably heart-related, and if anything, it was a miracle he’d made it that far.  

“Can I put you down as a reference?”  Vixen asked, as they were standing out against the brick wall watching them load the stretcher into the hull of a large white van.

“Sure.”  Katya nodded,  “But my voicemail is definitely not in English.”

Vixen groaned and scrubbed a hand over her own face, while Katya, still staving off her impending nervous breakdown over the loss of income, just smiled.

“What?  It keeps people on their toes.”

That evening, Katya had put a hand-written sign on the shop simply reading ‘Owner dead, sorry for the inconvenience’.

She still has a key.  And, she knows, is technically owed an entire six-hundred-and-something dollar paycheck.  Four days or so afterwards, not hearing anything from authorities, she’s been giving serious thought to the concept of just letting herself in and taking it from the register.  It feels reasonable. Nabbing what’s hers, and maybe an extra twenty, just like she saw him do so many times to blow on a panini. But sorrowfully, if that ends up being illegal, and she ends up somehow being held _responsible_ , she’s not about to sit in a holding cell while Trixie’s flat broke and evicted right at the end of her second trimester.

So she keeps the key to herself, and in the meantime, has been applying to all the places she actually feels like she has a shot at being hired.  

It’s a short list. _Very_ short.  Consisting of drag shops, sex shops, and bars.  And yeah, that’s sad. A dismal commentary on society.  But really, what the fuck else is she gonna do? Become a secretary?  Work at the bank? People like her don’t work at the _bank._ She’s lucky if she can get through a line for the ladies room at a concert without a raised eyebrow.

So, that’s her life.  Mad scramble, employment on the fritz, and the move-out date looming just a month away ( _Merry Christmas, right?_ ), it’s fucked.  Simply, purely, classically fucked.

She’s batting around the notion of calling Sasha and giving her a heads up that she’s four months away from becoming a babushka.   _Get your head scarves and beet farm ready, bitch._  At some point, she’s gotta know.  She’s the closest thing that Katya has to a blood relative.  But nah, she’s waiting on that until she has better news to accompany it with.  Can’t stomach the thought of feeding her _well, we might be homeless, but we’re having a baby, also, I have no job._

Sasha found her own _tranche de vie_ in the Big Apple.  Always did have that kind of unrelenting hard-headedness that functioned better on the East coast.  They talk maybe once a year, if that, but Katya knows that they could never truly fall out of contact.  Not when Sasha housed her through the coattails of highschool; dealing with everything from Katya fumbling her first estrogen shot, to skipping graduation so she could binge drink near the train tracks.

If only that swanky bitch could see her now.

College drop-out Katya, ‘got a stick-n-poke using a safety pin’ Katya, shoplifting pumps from Goodwill Katya, _that bitch_ … tapping her foot next to an examining table.  Hand clasped in her girlfriend’s palm, watching the sonogram gel being spread over Trixie’s stomach in hypnotizing gooey circles.

They’re at maximum penny-pinching mode, but it didn’t stop them from keeping the appointment.

The difference between this, and the last time they were at Peppermint's office, is total night and day.  Less like a back-alley favor and more like them being actual adults. Going to a professional establishment and paying money in exchange for legitimate on-the-books services.  Trixie’s just about as upset, though. Maybe more. She’s chewing one of her short pink nails just to the edge of breaking it, watching as Pepper smooths the sensor around her belly button.

Katya still thinks she looks damn cute in a hospital gown.  

“So it’s been going okay?”  Peppermint asks innocently.

Trixie glances up at Katya, who in turn, bugs her eyes out and bursts out laughing.

She can’t help it.  Throws her head back and cackles, actually covering up her mouth with one hand so as not to disturb the neighbouring rooms, just in case anyone’s finding out that they have herpes, or cancer, or whatever.

It’s been going fucking _horrible._ To even entertain the idea that there’s a silver lining is fleeting, but she still laughs, squeezing Trixie’s fingers in her own and shaking her head.

  
“Sorry, sorry, oh God - you don’t know.”  She takes a deep breath and looks up at Peppermint, regaining some control, even though she’s still stifling a giggle. “It’s great.  Everything’s great.”

Peppermint looks between the two of them blankly.

“You know you can talk shit in here, right?  I’ve heard it all before.”

Katya’s so sure that they probably aren’t the sorriest parents-to-be in the tri-county area.  Still, she isn’t about to unload their misfortune on an innocent bystander.

“No shit to talk.  Happy as a clam, Pep.”

“I just really want to make sure everything’s normal in here.”  Trixie interjects quickly, while gesturing at her stomach, “I didn’t really... I mean, I didn’t even know I was pregnant the first few months.  I drank sometimes, and I was having coffee like every morning.”

Nervous.  That’s how she sounds.  Not the same level of deliriously exasperated that Katya is; she’s hopeful, and strung so very high.

“That’s actually a _lot_ more common than you think.”  Peppermint responds evenly, steadying her hand as the image on the screen becomes stable. “Most people don’t know they’re pregnant until a month or two in.  Just because you drank doesn’t mean the baby automatically has FAS.”

The monitor is beholden no longer to a mess of grey static, but an actual shape morphing around.

Katya stares at it.  She blinks, once, hard.

It definitely looks... kind of like a human.  That’s what surprises her the most. Still abstract, the Picasso of unborn babies, but there’s the clear shape of a head, nose, hands.  She can even see it nodding.

Despite how she’s been making efforts to fortify herself for this very appointment, for seeing this exact image, she feels a sweat beading on her brow.

“That’s, uh… that’s really it, huh?”

She can tell Pepper’s trying hard not to laugh at her incompetence; her complete lack of maternal instinct.

“Yeah, that’s it.  Looking pretty normal…”  Peppermint clicks her tongue and freezes the screen, presses something on the keypad to save the image, “Not twins, if that was a worry.”

“If it was twins I’d just kill myself.”  Trixie mumbles.

She’s still going strong with her nervous ticks, now fidgeting with the fabric of the hospital gown hem.  Katya pushes down the urge to bat her hand.

“Understandable.”  Peppermint freezes the screen again,  “Do you guys wanna’ know the sex?”

Katya hadn’t even thought about it.  

They don’t have money to buy baby clothes yet, and they’re not exactly going into Home Depot with a nursery wish list, so it seemed generally insignificant.  No matter what the baby ends up being (boy, girl, genderless bog dweller) she’s gonna try and figure out how to love it all the same.

She looks down at Trixie, shrugging her shoulders.

“Your call, it’s inside you.”

Trixie hums in the back of her throat.

“Uh… yeah, I wanna know.”

You say you’d love it either way, but that’s horseshit.  Katya knows damn well that Trixie’s been hoping to push out something that she can turn into a lifesize barbie.  Dress me up, do my hair, all that.

So when Peppermint smiles all buttery soft and says, “Looks like it’s a girl”, Katya turns to Trixie, who’s preoccupied with smacking one hand over her eyes and grinning ear-to-ear.

“Oh, thank _God_.”  Trixie breathes.

Daughter.  They’ve got about three-fifths of a daughter mulling around in there.

“Olga it is.”  Is all Katya can manage to spout.

“No, she’s kidding.”  Trixie adds quickly, clutching at her face, dazed with the imaging machine.  

“You’ll need another couple checkups, but right now, everything seems healthy.”  Peppermint assures her, setting the wand down on the little sterile sliding table, next to several other neatly-arranged medical supplies.  

And Trixie… _Christ,_ she looks like she just won the lottery.  

A girl for the girliest girl Katya’s ever met.  A girl to cherish with that special kind of affection that boys never accept once they breach the age of ten, genuine and untarnished.   Despite the outlandish nature of it, Katya smiles too.

This is a good thing.  One healthy little Zamo-Mattel hybrid.  

She wonders who’s eyes it’ll get, and who’s bad habits.

“Do you guys want a print out this time?”  

“Yes, please”, Trixie answers enthusiastically.  

She’s probably gonna tack it up on a dreamboard the second they get home.  Upload it to Pinterest. Laminate it.

“Alright, I’ll let you use the bathroom really quick, thanks for being so patient…”  Peppermint removes her bright white nitrile gloves, and begins to slowly, squeakily replace them with a second set of bright white nitrile gloves,  “...and then, pelvic exam.”

One day they _have_ to get a new doctor.  

Not because Pepper isn’t a world-class dame with a MD-PhD, just because Katya can’t keep carrying on business-as-usual with someone who’s had their fingers inside both of them.

 

~

 

They come home to a massive pile of dishes their past selves kindly left, and while Trixie makes her way into the bedroom clutching a packet of small five by seven sonogram prints, Katya rolls up the silver sleeves on her dress and goes in on them.  

Sometimes it feels futile doing things around their house when she knows they have to leave so soon.  Like spritzing a forest fire. Throwing a fresh coat of paint on a car without a motor. But dutifully, they’re tending to their shit, one day at a time.  There’s not much else _to_ do.

“You thought about camming?”   Katya calls out from the kitchen.  She’s wrist deep in bubbles, and the water’s already starting to make her hands wrinkle like hag claws, “I bet people would shell out for preggo-fetish stuff.”

She’s waiting for Trixie’s exasperated little _ugh_ , or something to be thrown at the back of her head, but there’s just silence.

Silence, and the sound of furniture being moved one apartment above them.

“Hey, listen to me while I’m giving you sound financial advice!”  She calls again, flicking murky water off her hands and brushing them against the front of her dress.

There’s a small, square window in front of their kitchen sink, that overlooks an empty chained lot, nestled in front of a particularly broken-up sidewalk.  The panaderia uses it as free real estate to put up signs in the chain link, advertising two dollar breakfast burritos and authentic horchata on weekends, even though it inevitably gets vandalized after a good three days.  Right now, the sign is torn in half, swinging off its hinges on the fence, and simply reading ‘pana’.

Katya listens to the banging of the metal as the breeze nudges it back and forth.  

If Trixie hasn’t called her a fucker by now, something’s definitely amiss.

She shuts off the sink water and shuffles over into their little living-room-bedroom.  Trixie’s sitting upright on the bed staring down at the sonogram slides. They’re all splayed out in an arc on the sheets.

Her eyes are red like she just accidentally got into Katya’s bag of special gummy candies (which, to be fair, _did_ happen once.  That was a whole weekend of Katya hand-feeding her Doritos and spinning episodes of How It’s Made to keep her from losing her mind).  

Trixie’s cheeks are shimmering with these simpering, almost overly copious tears, as she sits sucking in tiny little breaths of air.

Katya rushes to the edge of the bed and crouches down next to her.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” She extends a hand to rest against Trixie’s shoulder, damp and smelling faintly of lemon soap, “I was just kidding, you know I’m the only one allowed to jack it to that bump.”

Trixie’s very quiet for a moment.  It’s not uncommon for her to have these downswings.  Chopped up to hormones and stress, Katya’s surprised that she isn’t crying all waking hours.  She probably has good reason to.

When Trixie finally speaks up, her voice sounds raked over gravel.  

“I don’t have anything for her.”

It’s just a whisper, but Katya hears her perfectly.  

Trixie reaches up to palm away tears from underneath her eyes.

“We literally don’t have _anything_ to give her.”  She repeats, this time with an edge of anger.

Katya’s good at pep talks, actually prides herself on the ability to chug a red bull and function as a personal cheerleader.  But in this case, she’s right. They don’t have jack; they haven’t even found a box to put blankets in. So inside her own brain, Katya scrambles to find something that she can say to just wipe that sorrowful look off Trixie’s sweet round face.  

“She has two moms ready to love the shit outta’ her.”  Katya shrugs, and sinks down onto the edge of the bed, “That’s more than either of us had.”

Trixie looks up at her; doe eyed, searching.  You can’t eat a mother’s love, but you also can’t buy it at the fucking corner store.  That’s what Katya figures.

“Are you really?”

“Huh?”

“Ready to love the shit out of her?”

Katya’s been banking on that _feeling_.  The one everyone says you get, when you see your kid for the first time all jellied and screaming.  Trusting that when the time comes, she’ll have some primal sense of duty wash over her and fall in love at first sight with the fuckin’ peanut, if it makes it out in one piece.

“Yeah, I am.  Cross my heart.”

She thinks it sounds pretty earnest, but Trixie groans and buries her face in her hands again.  

"That's news."

It stings.  

Just because she's not getting a layered bowl cut and rushing out to finance a minivan doesn't mean that she hasn't been sitting with the reality of things.

"Well, it's true."

Trixie takes a moment before reaching up and resting her hand over Katya's.  

“I'm sorry."  She starts, "I know you're good for it, I just... I grew up so fucking poor, and everyone said I was gonna get knocked up, and then I _did_ , and now my kid’s gonna be… just as poor.  Maybe even more so.  Like, I didn't break the fucking cycle.”

Tapped out of consolations, Katya reaches forward and tucks a strand of hair behind Trixie’s ear.  She uses her thumb to brush away stray mascara from underneath her eye.

“Hey, it's gonna' be alright…” She coos, softly,  “...at least it might not have your teeth.”  

Trixie blinks her eyes open, tenses, and in an instant, pitches a pillow at Katya’s face so hard that she almost falls clean off the foot of the bed.

 

~

 

The worst thing about the pregnancy is probably the fact that Trixie can’t big spoon her anymore.  It’s right up there with the mood swings, swollen ankles, and sense of impending doom that increases with each passing week.  There was something angelic about that.  Getting to have Trixie’s arms around her.  Soft, even squishy, not that she’d ever mention it without earning herself a slap on the shoulder.  If she was lucky, there were choice occasions when Trixie would wake up first and start wandering her hands around; bored, languid, steeped with the remnants of good dreams.   Katya would find herself pulled out of the dream trenches by one hand grabbing her tit, and another one slipping under the waistband of her underwear, if she was wearing any.

“You awake?”  Katya asks.

She has her fingers walking back and forth over Trixie’s shoulder, drumming up the energy to get out of bed by the bleared morning light.

“Hm.  Kind of.”  Trixie’s half present, but if she wanted Katya to fuck off, she wouldn’t have turned over in bed to face her, and slid her hand slowly through the sheets to squeeze at Katya’s thigh.  One half of her freckled face is sliced with a pillow-imprint. “Tryna’ start something?”

“Maybe.”  Katya grins.  

This might be the best thing she has.  This kind of morning, when they rouse before the alarm clock and have a beautiful secluded half hour, at best, to exist without demand.

Katya rolls over onto her side.  It makes her feel like a teenager, but she woke up half-mast, and lets Trixie know by tangling their legs together and grinding her hips down once.

“Oh my god.”  Trixie grins, and finally blinks open her eyes.  She acts like she doesn’t encourage it, or like she doesn’t physically reply by rubbing her foot against Katya’s leg.  “Already?”

“Don’t blame me for being full of vigor.”  

It makes Trixie giggle, and Katya takes that moment to surge forward, tilt her head to the side, and trap her in a kiss.

Subconsciously, she’s seizing every opportunity she can before they have an eight-pound drooling cockblock living with them.  Or a little miracle. Whichever way you wanna think about it.

And oh, Trixie’s on board with it.  She’s kissing back, and raking her fingernails down the dip in Katya’s spine.  Even powering through the fact that some three stories below, there’s a full-volume catfight breaking out and reverberating in the alley.

“Take this off.”  Trixie breathes in between nibbles to Katya's bottom lip, and she tugs the edge of Katya’s ratty shirt, slipping her fingernail through a hole in the hem.  Katya scrambles to sit up.

She’s got it halfway, caught over her head and her elbows like a blindfold, when there’s three loud bangs in succession on the far side of the apartment.

The knock shatters whatever momentum they were starting to drum up.

Katya pulls her shirt back down.

“We expecting someone?”

Trixie sits up too, pressing the sheets to her chest.

“I’m not.”

If Katya had her way, she’d say fuck the world, and flip right back over fixing to give Trixie a tit hickey.  

She clambers out of bed despite that.  It’s not the responsible adult kinda' thing to do.

On her way across the room, feet bare against the cold tile, Katya thinks to herself:   _Lukewarm coke.  Waiting in line.  Taylor Swift.  People who talk in movie theaters._

She answers in a t-shirt and boxers.  Her hair is spilling down over her shoulders in mangled corkscrews, unbrushed and matted, which mostly distracts from the way she’s tugging down the hem of her shirt a little further than necessary.  

She’s prepared for just about any massive dump life could take on her at this point.  Their landlord, saying the move-out date is sooner than expected, or that there’s a scheduled power outage.

Instead, standing ill-postured in the hallway, is some young guy in a suit.

Her first thought is _fuck, Mormons_.  But he has a courier case in his hand, five-o'clock shadow, and his tie loosened enough that it makes her think he doesn’t actually want to be there.  

And really, most people would know better than to try and evangelize their neighborhood.  That’s the kind of behavior that would earn you a _get bent_ at best, and a beer bottle to the back of the head at worst.

“Are you Katya Zama...Zuh... oh God.”

“Zamolodchikova.  Yeah.” She nods, crossing her arms and leaning in the doorway, “ _Please_ tell me I’m a murder suspect.”

He laughs once, tensely, and his eyes flick inside.  Katya glances over her shoulder too, to where Trixie has pulled on a robe and is making her way into the kitchen to root through the fridge.  She’s not hungry, never is in the mornings; just nosy and now in-earshot to their conversation.

“That would be a lot more exciting.”  He agrees, “I’m actually with a last will and testament group.  Court-appointed. It’s about Mr. DuBois.”

“I thought it was Devereaux.”  Katya frowns.

“He has three last names, and they all start with D.  We just picked the shortest one.”

Behind her, she can hear Trixie lean against the fridge and chomp into an apple.  

“What, did I… do you got a heartfelt letter for me or something?”  

“Maybe?”  The guy shrugs, and clicks open the front pocket of his messenger bag.  “I know this is … pretty unprofessional, but we were kind of hoping you might know the specifics.  Google translate wasn’t a ton of help.” Between slim fingers he pulls out two pieces of paper, stapled, faded from the sun, and handwritten, “It’s all in French.”

Trixie scoffs from the kitchen.

“You guys can’t get a translator?”  She mumbles around her mouthful of fruit.

“This seemed easier.  It said to deliver it to you at the bottom, in English, so we figured you could probably read it.”  

Katya reaches out and grabs the papers.  Trixie, now not even feigning disinterest, shuffles forward—her feet making the kind of swishing noise that indicates she’s donning her bunny slippers—and peeks over Katya’s shoulder.  

“To be honest we’re all kind of curious at the office.”  The guy adds.

Katya’s eyes rake down the first few paragraphs. There’s a business card papercliped to the first page, a letterhead, and an introduction that reads a lot like the same legalese she would expect in any last testament.  He wrote it of sound mind and free will, _yada yada_.

“Just putting me on the spot?”  Katya looks back at the guy, and then over her shoulder at Trixie, both of whom are waiting with the same bated breaths breathed by people watching the last four minutes of their favorite soap opera.  

“Okay, okay, he’s just talking about… um, please have my body disposed of whatever way is the cheapest... and send notice of my death to my brother Oliviér in Toulouse, who is a bastard, at the enclosed address.”  

She pauses as she sees her name, scribbled in that old hard to read script.  Used to seeing it on passive aggressive post-it-notes, but not like this.

“And to Katya, my worst employee...oh thanks.  You were constantly late to work, never followed the dress code, and one time, you took half of my pain au chocolat from the break room without asking.  It was the only thing I had bought myself for my eighty-first birthday.” Katya pauses, “You know, I remember that actually, and he’s bullshitting.  That thing had been in there for a whole twenty-four hours, mama, and that’s fair game…”

“Oh my god, keep reading.”  Trixie urges.

“Christ, through crowd.”  Katya pictures him scrawling it with a quill and ink.  Robe-clad. Puffing out clouds of smoke to disperse into the ceiling.  He must’ve had a good laugh to himself about the idea of reaming her from beyond the grave.  “You were like the daughter I never wanted, and still don’t want. That being said…”

The words die on her tongue.  

She skips forward a couple lines, re-reading, twice, just to make sure something isn’t getting lost in translation.  

Because… no fuckin’ _way_.

“What?”  Trixie asks over her shoulder, now looking down at the paper as if her eighth-grade French skills will help her understand any of it.

“That being said, I leave you with the deed to the shop and the top floor. I don’t care whether you sell it or keep it, I only care that you immediately dispose of my leather erotica magazine collection stored on the upper left hand side of the bookshelf.”

A weighted silence hangs in the room as she tries to wrap her head around it.

Trixie, slowly, places a hand on her upper back and asks, almost inaudible, “ _Really?_ ”

Katya holds up the piece of paper.

“Is this legit?”

The paralegal, much less emotionally invested than the two of them, shrugs.

“It’s  legally valid, yeah.”  He has this half-smirk on his face, “And the best goddamn will I’ve ever heard.”

Katya’s brain is running double speed trying to supplement in the holes in the situation.  Problems, problems, there _has_ to be a problem she isn’t thinking of.  Something that needs tending to.

“Is it mortgaged?  Am I just inheriting debt?”  She asks.

“No, he actually owned it.  I didn’t even know people still owned things in L.A.  We’re holding the deed whenever you can collect it.”

“Today.”  Trixie cuts in, giving Katya’s shoulder an excited and honestly, kind of painful, squeeze,  “We’ll get it today.”

“Alright, then I guess that’s everything.”  

“Guess so.”  Trixie’s doing the talking, now that Katya’s apparently stuck in a loop re-reading the paragraph over and over.  Like maybe she missed _psych!_ scribbled at the very end.

He really had no reason to leave her anything.  She stole half his goddamn pain au chocolat.

Already half shuffling towards the mildewy flight of stairs, the guy calls out an echoing “Have a good rest of your day”.  He’s eager to leave, not that anyone could really blame him, especially since four doors down just started playing Daddy Yankee at full volume.

Trixie closes the door.

Neither of them say anything.  Neither of them dare to speak out of fear, like they may shatter the illusion, or wake up from a fever dream to find that they’re in the same predicament they’ve been stuck in for the past.  But slowly a smile spreads across Trixie’s face, and it’s like ice melting in the early mornings, and the way tulips shoot up around springtime and you forget how beautiful they looked, until now; until it’s hitting you in the face.  A lightness previously dormant and dulled.

Her woman’s _happy_.  And their baby?  Still probably doomed.  But maybe not quite as doomed as before.

All before eleven on a Tuesday.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big time jump just to get the final few chapters truly rolling. 
> 
> I bit the bullet and made a ko-fi page. I work full-time and am in the process of graduating college, so finding time to write is definitely a Thing that takes Effort, and if you like the fic, mby consider buying my sleepy student ass a coffee at ko-fi.com/cherikatya ! 
> 
> And thirdly I realized that there's been a severe lack of music to accompany this fic, so if you're into that, give a listen to the song Tea, Milk & Honey - Oh Pep! which I listened to about 20 times while writing this chapter.
> 
> ♥

If there’s one thing she’s learned over the years, it’s that everything you want in life feels different once it’s in front of you.

Their relationship has been a great example of that phenomena.  Convincing, cornering, and cajoling Katya into admitting they were dating?  Quite the little endeavor. Even that, after all was said and done, didn’t feel like the topped-with-a-bow girlfriend experience she’d once crafted in her brain.  The beginning was mostly dysfunction. Like two high school crushes in heat, they were talking constantly. They met up after Katya’s shows at 3 AM when Trixie needed to be asleep, keeping her going strong through the night until she came into work the next day sleepless, fucked out, and sometimes a little stoned.  Seeing Katya was everything. Seeing Katya made her _feel_ everything.  All the honeymoon stuff that made it seem worth it; the hangovers and the heart murmurs.  

Katya’s place was disgusting back then—a big fucking amalgamation of cheap clothes washed too harshly too many times, coffee-stained end tables and wine-stained coffee tables, even a hideous raccoon over her lampshade that Trixie made her put away before they got hot n’ heavy.  The first few times she’d just suffered through it, and clung to Katya’s back for dear life while her head hit the pillow over and over, and she glanced at its beady little two-tone eyes.

It’s incredible to her how gung-ho she was back in those days.  It wouldn’t have gone down like that if it was anyone else—anyone else but Katya.

“People are staring at us.”  

Valentine’s Day, in the good year two thousand and thirteen, Trixie found herself seated atop the stool of a two-dollar izakaya with an outdoor counter and an overhang that threatened to drip condensation onto their heads.  That’s where she’d ended up meeting Katya after work.

“Great, that’s great.”  Katya had an arm wrapped securely around the small of Trixie’s waist.  Her other hand was busy gripping her half-munched nikuman, “Thought you loved attention.”

“I do, just not from… white dads on the street.”  Trixie glanced over her shoulder, “I like attention from you.”  

Katya wrinkled her nose and made a retching noise in the back of her throat.  Her face was illuminated by the final flare of orange peel sunset burning against the street lines, and after she was done with her gag, smiled.  With an arm still lazy around Trixie, she took a bite of her dumpling as if she didn’t have to answer. Frustratingly so, she stared ahead at the plumes of fire coming from the hot grills, with bustling chefs moving to tamp them down at the risk of losing an eyebrow.

Trixie had ordered jaga bata, but it was untouched.

“I’m not allowed to flirt with you, on a date, on Valentine’s Day?”  Trixie asked.

Katya wiped the back of her mouth with her hand.

“It’s Valentine’s Day?”

It was always hard to tell when Katya was lying or not.  She was such a good actress.

“Don’t pull that.  You asked me to come here.”

Trixie’s tone had started out delightfully playful, but the more that they talked about it, the more an edge of annoyance creeped in.

“I seriously didn’t know.”  Katya shrugged, “Happy Valentine’s day, sorry, you want a teddy bear?”

The strip of sidewalk—nestled into a more corner-ish area of a neighbourhood not too unlike a little Japan—was narrow.  Mostly, that just meant they couldn’t pull their loverlike bickering without a few heads turning behind them.  

Trixie wouldn’t have taken it like an arrow to the chest if it hadn’t been for the fact that she was _embarrassingly_ excited for this.  ‘What outfit should I wear’ kind of excited, because gosh _golly_ , Katya was finally asking her on a real-life date. _And on Valentines day no less!_ That’s what had gone through her thick head.

“What was I supposed to think you were asking me?”  Trixie said slowly,

“To hang out?”  Katya held up the nikuman like it was evidence, “Food and fuckin’?”

It was so over-the-top oblivious that Trixie actually felt her face growing hot under the layers of foundation.  Good thing she always carried powder.

“Oh my god, screw this.”  Trixie elbowed Katya’s arm away from her and hopped up off her seat, dug out a graffitied ten dollar bill out of her purse, and slammed it on the countertop.

It was arguably childish.  

The assumption, of course, was that them going out not just to fuck, but to an actual dinner, meant that Katya might be at long-last willing to put a name to all their late night hookups and club come-ons.

It was quite cute of her to bank on that.

Trixie started to walk away as angrily as she could.  The pink heels with bows tied on the ankles made that hard to accomplish, but still she stomped, headed in the direction of parasol vendors and konbinis.  

And like a good lovesick puppy, Katya dropped her food onto the table, and started after her.

“Hey, Trix!”  She called out over the murmur of so many other couples, also trying to find meaning on a random weeknight.  Her garish clear platform jellies made this awful scuffing sound over the pavement as she got closer and closer, a noise distinguishable above everything else, “You’re really gonna act like a teenager right now?”

Trixie stopped in place next to the dumpster of what, regrettably, smelled like a seafood restaurant, and glanced over her shoulder.

“If you’re really gonna pretend like, by now, we aren’t dating?  Yeah. Absolutely.”

Katya’s shoulders deflated.  People were passing them on either side, but Trixie let herself be still as Katya moved forward and nodded towards a small alley corner.  It was dark by way of shadows, and completely unpopulated.

“Just, come on, come here for a second.”

The bricks inside the alley were oozing—something.  God knows what.  Build-up from the grease that flew through the air in searing nebulaic clouds.  

Trixie hesitantly stepped in to the alley, careful that neither of her heels fell into a grate.

“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”  Katya started out slowly.

Out of the sun, it was colder.  Katya had reached out to grab onto her arms.  Trixie remembers that, because it made it all the more difficult to be full-force angry when all her touches were so soft.  Delicate fingers and all of her nails filed into points, except her index and middle.

“Am I your girlfriend or not?”  

Katya’s expression, in response, was hard to read, but if Trixie had to name the emotion, she’d probably say apprehension.

“You really wanna’ be?”  Katya asked.

“Duh.”  

It was the most obvious of things.  They’d slept in each-others bed, been up inside every crevice of the others body, joked about all the nasty shit nobody else found funny and still, Katya seemed to be struggling.  She struggled even as she smoothed her hands up over Trixie’s shoulders, eye-level, and attentive.

“You’re…”  Katya raked her eyes over Trixie’s face,  “Look, you’re a catch, okay? Total piece.  Dime and a half, I just… I think you’d end up hating me if we tried to be together like that.  And I’d rather you keep on liking me.”

“That sucks.”  Was all Trixie could think to say, in the moment.

“I know.”  Katya reached forward and placed two fingers under Trixie’s chin, “But you’ll thank me one day.”

Katya was one of those people.  All it took was a simple touch and suddenly all Trixie’s planned-out arguments and stubborn rebuttals died in her brain.  It would be pleasing to pretend that the night ended with her being hard-headed, and giving Katya an ultimatum ( _love me or leave me, baby!_ ), but it ended with Katya’s head between her legs while they half-watched the second season of Buffy.

That whole notion of keeping their distance—either out of self-preservation or stupidity—really worked out well for them, didn’t it?

Nowadays, Trixie isn’t sure who they are.  

She isn’t sure how they fit into the scope of their own lives.  Without the frivolity, and the late nights, and the early mornings, they’re really just two gals who scraped the bottom of the barrel enough times to actually stop the world and it’s constant rocking and rolling.

Katya is a business owner.  

_There’s_ a sentence she never thought she’d be able to honestly say.  

And moreover, she’s not too bad at it.  

The costume shop was closed for a month while they moved into the upper floor.   Katya had poured over all kinds of books and online texts like _Bookkeeping For Dummies_ , _Beginners Guide To Business,_ and _How The Hell Do I Employ People?_  That was almost domestic enough to make them gag.  Nights when Trixie would sit across from her at the table, in their dining room— _christ, they had a dining room_ —and watch Katya’s eyes flick back and forth underneath her reading glasses.  The whole shop-owner thing is still something she’s surmounting, but four months after they claimed the deed, the shop _is_ running.  

The regulars were happy to see it fall into familiar hands.  Most of them knew Katya a little too closely for comfort (especially one queen in particular, who loved to tell Katya that she _has the most lifelike breast forms she’s ever seen,_ to which someone would always remind her, _actually, they’re just tits_ ).  The place has just as much traffic, if not more now.  Katya does it all—checks inventory, delivers paychecks to her whopping one employee, counts out the bank at the end of the day.  It’s everything she used to do, but for about triple the cash, and a little more satisfaction.

Trixie remembers a night in the onset of March, when Katya had let Vixen go home early to keep some activist group meetup, Trixie had decided to come downstairs and sit with her while she swept the shop floor.

“You know, this actually isn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”  Katya had said. Her hands were pink from scrubbing the countertops, hair a mess, and when Trixie looked at her she felt completely beguiled.

“Maybe it is hard and you’re just good at it.”  Trixie said, while she sat in the breakroom chair and ate peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon.

On top of straddling the business, they had to move all their shit across town themselves while one-half of their dynamic duo was five and a half months knocked up. _Rotted goddamn nightmare._  They’d left their mattress frame on the street corner outside the apartment as one final fuck-you gift to the panaderia for always playing their music so loud.

Thanks to the shop revenue, and the few paychecks Trixie collected before she officially tapped out on maternity leave, they have most things they need for the baby.   _Most_ things.  As much of that to-do list as they could check off, they’ve scratched at it.  In a pale yellow dresser, with no more than two drawers, situated in the spare bedroom, they now have a collection of tiny pink onesies, dresses for when she’s a few months older, and socks you can only fit over three adult fingers.

Despite both of their willingness to put her in a box, they have a crib.  Found at Vinnie’s for a reasonable forty dollars. The paint is chipping, but inside, there’s a nice bedown of pink and yellow blankets that sit daunting, and waiting to be filled.

Katya keeps saying that she’s waiting for her first grey hair so she can finally consider herself a silver fox.  

Trixie?  She’s just hoping that she’ll get her meager beach body back within the year.

And speaking of her body...

Her body, for fucks sake, is a mess.

The first trimester had been a whirlwind of bullshit, and the second had been almost comfortable in comparison, but now, the pregnancy is _seriously_ not fucking around.  

It’s April.  The big nine months.  

A week away from her due date, and three weeks away from Katya’s birthday.  

Trixie’s ankles hurt.  Her back hurts. She can feel the way her hips have shifted outwards, the bones migrating to accommodate the weight of the baby pressing against her pelvis.  At night, it takes her a good hour to find a position comfortable enough to fall asleep in. Sometimes she can’t sleep flat-out. And sleeping pills are a no-go; no sedatives for her little chitlin.

She literally _can’t_ imagine being any more pregnant than she already fucking is.

Despite Doctor Moore repeatedly assuring her that everything's normal, everything's normal, everything looks great! Trixie’s failing to understand how this thing is gonna get out of her.  

It seems impossible.  Like trying to shove an apple through a pinhole.  

Even having their ‘birth plan’ ready—rush to the hospital, jack her up on as much morphine as possible, and pray that medical loan forgiveness programs apply to them—doesn’t quell the feeling that she’s in over her head. _Way_ over her head.  Sitting obediently at the bottom of the ocean.

“It’s not gonna happen _tonight_.”  Is what Trixie had told Katya before she left for the show.  “Keep your phone on if you’re so worried.”

Katya’s last show.  

Bittersweet, huh?

It’s something that Violet had organized after Katya made the unprompted twitter announcement she was going to quit drag cold turkey.  A spectacle titled ‘Katya’s Wet Hot Retirement Blowout’ featuring pretty much every name off the list of peoples she’s performed with for the past… ever.  It’s all for Katya. A small thank-you, for what she’s contributed over the years, to the not-so-little cesspool that is small-time L.A. drag.

Trixie saw the guest list.  It’s almost everyone they know, somehow converging on one single night to celebrate the person she loves most in the world.

And she’s too pregnant to go.  Ridiculously, uselessly pregnant.

“Eh.  I don’t know, that sounds kind of cursed.”

“I’m not due for another week.”  Trixie said calmly. She was helping Katya zip up the back of a red sequin leotard that read ‘let’s party’ on the front, in big, white, blocky letters.  “And it’s your event.”

Katya was all _kinds_ of dragged up.  Her hair was curling-ironed into delicate little ringlets, she had fake eyelashes that practically touched her eyebrows, overdrawn red lipstick, black stiletto boots that made her two whole inches taller than Trixie.  

“One week.”  Katya breathed,  “That’s so fuckin’ soon.”

Trixie caught a glimpse of her expression in the mirror over her shoulder.  She knew what Katya was thinking, because they were both thinking the same exact thing.

_What on Earth have I gotten myself into?_

“You’re gonna be good at it.  I promise.” Trixie said. She situated the zipper at the top of Katya’s neck, and for good measure, gave her a slap on the ass.

Katya stumbled and smiled; turned around to face Trixie—blindingly glitter-adorned and captivating.

“I’m supposed to be the one comforting you.”  

“I don’t need anyone to comfort me, I’m fuckin’ ready.”  Trixie lied, with a convincing grin, “My mom never bought me a My Size Barbie, so this is the next best thing.”

Katya had gone to the party after a decent amount of prodding.  

Trixie knew, the second she walked through the door, she’d forget about all her qualms and get swept up in the carousel of excess.  It was always like that with her. She was nowhere if not entirely in the moment.

That was two hours ago, and Trixie would wager that by now, Katya has found herself a seat on Violet’s lap while Mrs. Kasha Davis serenades her with top eighties.

As much as she’d like to be a fly on the wall for that trainwreck, Trixie doesn’t mind staying home alone.  

She has company.

“Your mom hates the weirdest shit.”  She taps against her belly, as she roots around on her knees in the fridge for wherever she left the sponge cake to cool,  “Like cheese. Who the fuck hates cheese?”

The plan is that whatever ungodly hour of the night Katya gets home, ripping off her jewelry and laughing to herself, there will be a cake sitting on the dining room table reading _R.I.P. YOUR DRAG_.  

Trixie thinks it’s cute.  

She also thinks it’s, coincidentally, the best thing she can offer right now.

“God, I need to start swearing less before you’re out.”  She bumps the door closed with her hip, and sets the cake on the kitchen counter.  “Last time I made Katya a cake it was angel food, for her birthday, and she didn’t eat any of it, and then she ordered Domino’s.”

The chocolate cake, misshapen in front of her, was artfully crafted from a store-bought mix.  

As if she’d be able to follow a recipe.

Their kitchen is gorgeous.  There’s three entire planes of space for you to set things on, made of crisp white tile nested under vintage cupboards.  It’s nothing like the matchbox they used to have. No sir. Now, they’re the proud owners of a fridge, a stove, a sink, _and_ a dishwasher.

“She keeps saying you’re gonna have to call her _mamochka_ so nobody gets confused.  Mom and mom might be hard. We’re all idiots in this house.”  

Trixie grabs a ziploc from one of the drawers, and cuts a hole in the top to make a poor man’s piping bag.   A bowl of stiff chocolate sugar-cream that she’d mixed earlier has just barely started to crust over, but still, she starts spooning out frosting from the bowl and into the pocket.

When prodded about why she was so indifferent to her own performance-retirement, Katya didn’t have a lot to say.

“I don’t have time.”  Was the gist, “It’s always the same shit, anyways.  You wiggle around, and everyone’s drunk, and you make fifty bucks, and someone pukes on your shoes when you’re taking a smoke break.  Big fuckin’ deal.”

“But you love it.”  Trixie was trying to get Katya to admit that maybe, on some subconscious level, one day, she would begin to blame Trixie for corralling her.  It would be awful to know there was a seed of resentment growing underneath the surface. They might be having a baby, but that didn’t mean they had to snuff out any flames.

Katya seemed genuinely unphased.  She’d shrugged, and grabbed Trixie’s hand to give a small kiss to the back of her knuckles, while they were laying in bed next to each-other on their floor-mattress, and said “I have a bunch of other stuff to love now.”

It makes sense.  

It makes Trixie feel like they’re growing up.  

For ambiance in the kitchen, she has her phone speaker playing the oldest of Patsy Cline albums.  There’s street noise that seeps in from outside, but ultimately, it’s quiet in comparison to the apartment complex.  If she closes her eyes really tight, she can even pretend she’s eleven again, standing at her mom’s sink in Wisconsin looking out over the sprawling grass fields while the radio plays and she peels potatoes.

One day, she’d like to see that again.  She’d like to see a house not pressed between two other buildings, and a horizon speckled with only trees and sky.

The icing isn’t well-made, but it’s working—she’s just about to start in on the letter D when, shocking her out of her nostalgia, there’s this sickening splattering sound against the tile floor.

She drops the bag of icing.  

It hits the surface of the cake and smudges the first three letters.

“ _Fuck._ ”  She hisses, and takes a step back.

Her own pulse now resounding in her own ears, she slowly tilts her head down to look at the floor.

Three days ago, she’d felt contractions that she chopped up to Braxton Hicks.  There was two of them. One, at the breakfast table, that hadn’t hurt all that much, and then another one later on when Katya was taking her out for a smoothie, that really made her squirm.  It wasn’t uncommon, but it had both of them sweating and rolling in their beds that night. They held their breath until, the following morning, it turned out to be nothing. She was almost two weeks away from due, why would it be something?

And after promising Katya that she could leave for one night—that it would happen on any other night, but certainly not tonight— _why_ on Earth would it be something?

Her water definitely just broke.

Her first thought is that Katya’s going to _I told you so_ her so hard.  A second, even stupider thought, is that come a day or two, she can’t wait to have a glass of wine.

Trixie rushes out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the bathroom to switch on the shower.  Her brain is running kinda’ slow in the face of it. She’s thinking in a one-step-at-a-time mentality, and the first step, she tells herself, is to wash the gross amniotic bullshit off herself, and change clothes.  

No, her first step is to call Katya.  Then wash. Then—something. Katya will probably remember what comes next.

As the shower warms up—the pipes in this place are so old, and everything is slow off the bat—she scurries back out into the kitchen on bare feet to grab her phone off the counter with liquid still slowly dripping down her leg.  

It must be loud in the club, but Katya said she’d have her phone on her.  

It rings.  And rings. And rings.  

And then...

“ _Privet!  Zhizn' bessmyslenna, i my vse umirayem v odinochestve_ -“

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Katya’s stupid fucking voicemail.  It’s enough to make Trixie want to toss the phone out the window, but instead, she calmly hangs up.  She never asked what it meant in English.  She's one-hundred percent sure it'll make her even more pissed off every time she has to hear it.

They have every minute of this planned out on paper.  They've read the books, the articles; they know all the steps from water-break, to crowning, of how they should go about the delivery.  Trixie even knows that despite the puddle of embryo juice in the kitchen, she might have hours before contractions start happening, and hours after that, before anything really gritty goes down.

Sill, her heart is beating hard as a jackhammer.  She's alone in the house.  She’s disoriented.  It feels like the one time Katya convinced her to try two lines of coke instead of one, and she thought she was dying.

There’s this image in Trixie's head of Katya at the party, totally consumed with being an enthusiastic front-row audience member, or maybe doing a body shot off Violet’s beautiful flat stretch-mark-free stomach, with her phone forgotten in her purse behind the bar.  

Trixie swallows that, and tells herself that it’s no big deal.  Katya will get to her phone _any_ minute.  Probably by the time Trixie gets out of the shower.  

And after that?  

Apparently, they’re having a baby.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, I'm writing their relationship in this 'verse' as somewhat open, so I hope nobody interprets anything in this chapter as *gasp* infidelity. Enjoy and thanks for your patience w. the slow update!

Katya isn’t sure what she was expecting her own retirement party to look like, but it wasn’t this.

Knowing Violet was at the helm of it all, she had readied herself for polished chaos.  Lowlights. Neon green Jell-O shots. A slovenly chic backroom for anonymous hookups; a few hoop dancers, or maybe a go-go platform.  In fact, the harder she thinks on it, the more it sounds like she’s just recalling a long list of shit from Violet’s twenty-fifth birthday.  God damn, the _memories_ on that one.  

Katya’s thighs are growing sweaty on a red vinyl barstool.  The overhead glow is just dim enough to lend a helping hand to the ten-plus layers of caked makeup most people are sporting.  It’s lively, and warm. From the liquor shelves, to the stage, and all the way through the club to the bathroom line, it’s stuffed lavish with a collection of everyone that Katya’s ever seen squeeze into a corset, and then some.  They have a fan thrumming sidestage to fend off the air. Unavoidably, the interior is thick with condensation from all the bodies, but every once in a while, a breeze rustles the ends of Katya’s hair, and she feels mercied.

Above the stage hangs a banner tacked haphazardly that reads ‘Прощай Екатерина’.  A few of the letters are misshapen, indicating hand-work, but it’s adorable.

She’s glad that out of all the bars in L.A., she gets to blow the allegorical candle out in her usual haunt.  This bar, downtrodden and cramped as it may be, was as close as she ever got to a steady gig. It’s her _spot_.  The place she’s made a fool of herself in every month for years, and never thought twice about showing up again, until now.

“You were the first time I saw drag after I turned twenty one!”  This one guy had told her earlier on in the night, before the acts started.  He was fresh-faced, no more than thirty, and nursing a sex on the beach, “Sucks that you’re quitting.  You’re so sexy.”

“I’m a lesbian.”  She’d monotoned back without thinking.  

She could see the little dying light in his eyes.  Nobody ever expected her to be cold. And the poor guy, how long had he pep talked himself in the bathroom to get up the courage to talk to her?  It was a bit of honest bad timing on his part; catch her four years ago, and all he would’ve needed was eighty bucks cash, and a half-decent enclave.

The sequins on Katya’s bodysuit are starting to rub the top of her hips raw.  Normally, she’d be too drunk to feel physical sensations, but she’s limited herself to one so far.  The spotlight being on her, she’s been offered free liquor left and right, but keeps saying no. There’s no way she’s about to let her guard down that much.

It’s about the baby.  

These days, it’s _always_ about the baby.

If Trixie doesn’t have it soon, Katya’s convinced her stomach will just rip right in half.  That’s what it seems like is gonna happen, judging by how massively swollen she is. Whenever she’s shirtless, Katya likes to flick at her bellybutton, the way it sticks out, but secretly feels too scared to ask whether or not it’ll suck back in after everything’s said and done.   The last sonogram they got even came out looking like an entire human person—she had a nose and fingers and everything.  When she squinted, Katya even thought she could see her flipping them off.

She takes another small slip of her drink through a straw, staying careful not to smudge her lipstick.  

Even her deepest and most intense of mental potholes regarding the baby, and the fact that before she even turns thirty-six she’s, going to be a mother ( _who in their right fucking mind saw that coming?_ )…

...seeing Ginger in drag is enough to pull her right out of it.

“I can’t even begin to describe the emotion I felt when I heard Katya wasn’t gonna’ be shakin’ her ass up here anymore.”  

The last time Katya saw Ginger in drag they were both performing at L.A. pride.  It was over-crowded, pollinated to the nines; Ginger had gotten allergies so bad his mascara began to run, and Katya told him to lip sync to My Heart Will Go On to keep up the dramatic flare.  

“Oh wait, I can, it was joy.”  

Over the sea of bobbing heads, Katya grins, and blows a kiss from the barstool.  Ginger looks her right in the eyes.  He’s dolled up in a gold brocade gown, and his hair is thick, curly, glossy red over his shoulders.

“Katya, when I first met you, I thought you were the prettiest showgirl I’d ever seen.  Then I got to know you, and I realized that you’re _literally_ a disease-infested rickety old motherfuckin’ skeleton wearing some nice girl’s skin, cheap extensions, and too much lipstick.”  

The words echo sharply through the microphone, and Katya—sandwiched between Violet and some leather butch—doubles over into a small fit of wheezing, that ends in her coughing a few times into her balled up fist.  With Ginger and Kasha on the roster, it’s been less of a _wish Katya farewell on her journey into motherhood_ party and more of a _roast of Yekaterina_ kind of thing.

“Last time I performed with this bitch - “ Ginger starts, and Katya begins to tune out,  “We were at L.A. pride, and she thought it would be a good idea to... “

Katya glances down at her phone.  

No messages from Trixie.  No calls.

For a month now Trixie has kept bringing up the fact that she was born late, and super fat, so she thinks their girl will be the same.  Fat and late. That was one of her key points in her argument to get Katya out of the house in the first place. Because it’s one night.  Because it’s _literally_ one goddamn night.

Next to her, cinched in a white latex pencil skirt and matching halter top, Fame on her arm, Violet elbows Katya right in the tit.  

“Will you stop?”

“ _Ow_ , you fuckin’ hag.” Katya groans, and brings a hand up to cup her own breast. “Stop what?”

“It’s every five seconds.”  Violet rolls her eyes, and then leans forward to speak softer over the sound of Ginger running his mouth, and eliciting bursts of tame laughter from the crowd, “She’s not due for a week.”

A week seems to sound like forever to everyone else.  To Katya, it seems just around the corner.

“No, it’s not about the baby, I’m actually tracking a package.  Big shipment of uh… nipple clamps. I’m really into nipple clamps lately.”  Katya rambles into Violet’s ear, “Trixie can’t use em’ though, on account of the breast milk, it’s really sad.”  

She adds it just to see Violet scrunch up her face in disgust.  

The truth is, Katya’s at the party, but she hasn’t really _showed up_ yet.  She’s scheduled to perform last, too.  The big closer. Her end-of-an-era wiggle.  She isn’t sure if it’s gonna be what everyone else wants it to be, at this rate.

Without a preamble, Violet reaches forward and snatches her phone.  Katya doesn’t rush to take it back, because it feels like in some way, she might deserve it.

“Baby.”  Violet sighs over her shoulder, and like a good kept lady, Fame leans forward with a dainty smile.  

“What’s up?”  She asks, doe-eyed.

She has on this flowing green dress, fluffy golden locks of hair, and beautiful pale pink lipstick.  Katya swears, as far as couples go, they put her and Trixie to shame.

“Hold this.”  Violet instructs her, and waves Katya’s phone like a dollar,  “The woman of the hour needs some help relaxing.”

“That’s not funny.”  Katya says seriously.

Violet holds up a finger.

“Twenty minutes.”  Violet says, “Chill out for twenty minutes.  Enjoy yourself for fucks sake, while you’re still a free woman.”

Katya isn’t a fan of the implication that her having a kid with Trixie will be such a prison.  She’s not sure that she’s gonna be such a fan of motherhood either, but she’s trying to cling to a shred of optimism while she still can.  There’s a lot of things that she’s slowly become excited about. Like stupid voices; she’s gonna’ do lots of stupid voices. And she’s excited about hot-gluing things to all the onesies Trixie’s bought.  She’s excited to get better at cooking, so by the time Trixie’s unthinkably big tits stop making baby food, she can whip up a mean mashed pea.

Clearly, Trixie’s rubbing off on her, and not just in the fun kinda’ way.  At this point, she’s more impatient for the baby to come, than uneasy. Better to rip off that bandaid sooner than later.

“I will, forever and always, be a free woman.”  Katya insists.

She bites down on the straw and sucks down the last of her drink.  Slowly, and a little sticky with sweat, she slides off the barstool and comes to stand in front of Violet, where she can thump her empty glass down on the counter.  “Come have a smoke with me if you’re confiscating my shit. I’m aboutta’ fucking sweat to death in here.”

Onstage, Ginger’s set has moved swiftly from insulting Katya specifically, to just throwing insults rampantly at the crowd and seeing what sticks.  Violet glances over at Fame. Fame, as per her usual tradition, is re-applying a touch of lipstick and pouting her lips in her pocket mirror, illuminated by the glow of the bar.  She catches sight of Violet’s stare, and gives her a faint smile.

“What?”  Fame asks,  “Never asked me for permission before.”

Twenty minutes.

That’s nothing.

When Katya finally breaks through the smokescreen of the sweltering indoor air, out into the shimmering night, dark perforated with street lamps and music from corner performers, she sighs.  There’s a wet napkin speared by her heel that she kicks off underneath the awning. Above her head, long sets of warm barn-style bulbs dot the overhang. A few are blown out.

Violet’s right behind her.  She steps out of the club looming taller than one of the doormen in her shoes, but oh so graceful.  Her feet avoid the cracks in the street, and the already-discarded cigarettes. Katya’s had one tucked behind her ear for the past ten minutes, just been trying to find a polite moment to step out.  She reaches into her purse for the pack.

“What time am I on again?”  Katya asks.

She keeps walking backwards as she extends a smoke out to Violet, headed away from the kerfuffle, towards the little dips in the pavement where the alleyways bisect the sidewalks.  It’s nice to hear the noise reverberate off the buildings. There’s a mean brick wall just a few feet from the bar entrance that Katya likes to stamp out embers on, and she swears, at some point, her and Trixie were drunk and wrote their initials on one of the bricks in sharpie.  Someone must’ve covered it up, though. Every time she looks for it, she just finds remnants of everyone else, and their memories, and fleeting emotions.

“Midnight.”  Violet takes the cigarette from her.  Katya sparks the lighter for the both of them, and suppresses a grin as they lean in slowly, sharing a single flame like a couple of pent-up carpet munchers, as if they don’t already have girlfriends.  Violet lets the smoke drip from her mouth, crawling up the side of her face and vanishing into the night air. All the shadows on her face make her look just a little more evil than usual. “What song are you doing?”

Violet rarely smokes.  She hates the smell and the notion of becoming a slave to them, but but this is a special occasion.   _It’s retirement, baby!_

“I dunno yet.”  Katya shrugs, “I thought about getting a fake belly and doing Papa Don’t Preach, but that seemed kind of on the nose, in a bad way.”

“So you’re being lazy, basically?”

“I’m tired.”  Katya says, and grinds her heel back and forth against the pavement to hear the grit of it,  “Trixie keeps making me stay up late ‘cause the baby won’t let her sleep, and then every fucking morning I have to be down in the shop.”

Even when she says it, it comes out wrapped in fondness.  

Last time Trixie made her stay awake they ended up watching television, and Katya tried to go down on her to see if an orgasm might make her tired, but her forehead kept bumping into Trixie’s stomach.  They were laughing too hard to keep it sensual, and eventually ended up falling asleep with the TV on. The morning after, when Katya had been showing Vixen how to do inventory summaries, Trixie had trotted downstairs all dolled up and glowing to fix Katya with a cup of coffee, and a kiss on the cheek.  It was enough to make your teeth want to rot right out of your skull. Katya literally hasn’t heard the end of it since then.

“God, this is so weird.”  Violet maunders, and shakes her head.

She ashes her cigarette.  A passing Miata honks at a group of pedestrians, boldly ignoring the crosswalk and dashing on the tarmac.  It’s the race to keep the party alive. They laugh and stumble over the curb, as the car swerves, and then speeds up in protest.

“What’s weird?”  Katya asks Violet.  

She presses her back against the bricks.  They’re cold; an cherished antidote to the sweat pooling underneath her bra, and in the dip of her spine.  

Violet looks down at the ground, and shakes her head.

“You’re…”  She pauses, laughs, “You’re getting old, goddamnit!”

Katya grins at it, too, as Violet crosses her arms petulantly. Her perfect cherry-red lips leave stains on the filter as she sucks in another breath.

“Yeah, I’m literally a milf.” Says Katya, and then reaches out and places a hand on Violet’s shoulder.  Her fingers are sticky with dried vodka-soda from the bar, “You know that this makes you an aunt, right?”

“No.”  Violet shakes her head violently, kicking one of her feet forward to nudge Katya’s shin, encased in a knee-high black leather boot, “I reject that.”

Now that Katya thinks about it, Fame seems more like the rich aunt type.  It’s hard to picture someone who looks fresh out of a gothic Baron von Lind painting holding a baby in their arms.  Although maybe, just maybe, Katya can get her daughter a tiny little latex onesie, to blend.

“You’re one to talk about getting old.”  Katya pokes Violet in the side, and then lets her hand linger, right above the waistline of her skirt,  “Miss ball and chain.”

Violet smiles.  It’s a full-cheeked rosy-red and in-love kind of expression.  Bashful. She’s always bashful when someone brings up her fiancé.  They sent out the invitations for a summer wedding just two weeks prior, and Trixie and Katya were invited, plus one, which was a nice touch.

“I guess we’re both going soft.”  Violet says.

To the right of them, the overhang lights are blinking back and forth like fireflies.  Katya can’t tell if it’s a strobe effect, or a small power surge. It splatters warm slices of light across Violet’s face, glinting off the glitter on her eye, and the drip of her lips.

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

The good old days weren’t really good, and they didn’t happen long enough ago to be considered old.  

That was back when Katya was still performing on the weekly, and pulling tricks for money, convinced she couldn’t get any other gig.  Violet was busying herself with whipping people on the ass for a pretty penny. They related to each-other for that experience. Connected by the way men saw them as demons and angels at the same time.  The amount of mischief they’d gotten themselves into—to cope, probably—was downright shameful, but it's stuff that makes a good party story. Great to say, _one time, me and Violet spent the night in a holding cell._  Bad to remember that in reality, they’d been followed by a cop car for three blocks after one of Katya’s shows.  The pigs didn’t believe they weren’t hookers, and then frisked both of them with more curiosity than was warranted, until some asshole with a bald head and a blotchy face stuffed his sausage fingers into Violet’s bra and found a half-gram of blow.  If they hadn’t softened up, Violet and her, they’d be dead or dying. That’s Katya’s best guess.

When Violet kisses Katya, it’s slow.  

She leans forward, perfume looming on her neck, and brushes their lips together with a softness that is so often absent from their flirtations and fixations.  Katya opens her mouth, and melts at the taste. It’s less familiar now; different than Trixie’s big puffy lips, chapstick sweet like candy, and teasing teeth. Violet tastes like a snake shedding its skin.  Violet tastes like getting your tongue pierced. Violet tastes like a punch to the stomach.

It’s as soft as she’d accused them of being.  Almost familial, if it wasn’t for their history, and Katya knows why she’s doing it.  It means a lot more than just a little extra bit of blood rushing through your body. It’s a kiss goodbye to so many parts of themselves that they’ve coveted and damned, and so much time wasted, and so much time well spent.  

Of course Katya kisses back.  Katya kisses her back like they have all the time in the world.

When Violet eventually pulls away— _how many minutes later?_ —Katya realizes she’s dropped her cigarette on the ground.  It smolders lazily next to a crack in the concrete, split with weeds.

Katya clears her throat, and lowly, mumbles,  “We should get back.”

“Are you sure about that?”  Violet asks, and presses her hand against the wall so she can get up in Katya’s face again, with a glint in her eye that washes away all the tenderness, and the still.  She takes a pull of her cigarette, then flicks it aside, and puffs out smoke at Katya’s face, “Ginger’s set goes on another five minutes.”

 

~

 

Kasha, busted into the green room with his dress unzipped post-stage, has had a long island iced tea.  

 _Never_ a good situation.  

God, he’s a funny fucking drunk, though.  He’s made Katya botch her eyeliner touch-up twice now because he keeps saying shit that makes her wheeze.  The room is filled with smoke from someone’s joint, and Violet is watching Katya pitifully try and drag fresh mascara out of the year-old tube produced from the depths of her makeup go-bag.

“My votes’ on Pussy.”  Fame chirps from where she’s she’s busied herself with fixing one of the elaborate straps on Violet’s top.  “You do it so well.”

“I can’t.”  Katya shakes her head gleefully, and takes a sip of the margarita a bartender had handed her on-house, that she’s halfway through finishing, “Not after Violet did Pussy at Old Nick’s right after she got her junk cut off, nothing can top that.”  

“What about Roxie?”

Kasha’s voice is wobbly from the corner of the room, where he’s sitting nestled on the couch with none other than Mr. Davis himself.  Those two, they’ve been kind of phenomenal the past few months. Not because they know shit about pregnancy—they don’t—but because they have happily explained to Trixie and Katya in detail what they actually needed to have ready before the baby came.  Apparently it was ‘way more diapers than you think’ and ‘tiny nail clippers’.

Katya brushes mascara up over her eyelashes, mingling them stiffly with the fake ones.  She’s already started to sweat off half her makeup, and is in the process of furiously reapplying before she has to go under the spotlight.  

“I was actually thinking I might go acappella.”  Katya says, “I’ve been preparing a heartfelt rock opera on the intricacies of nonstandard tax forms.”

“Oh yeah?”  Violet goads,  “Let's hear a little.”

Over her drink, Katya’s eyes fall on Fame’s bag.  

The tarnishing interlocking C-shapes bounce light off them abrasively, and it makes her realize that it’s been a helluva’ lot longer than twenty minutes since Violet confiscated her phone.

She glances at the clock.  She wants to give herself a little _good old Katya_ heckle, _letting the time get away from you again._  It’s hard not to, when she’s surrounded by so many people that she rarely gets to see, and that she’s about to see even less.

How long _has_ it been since she had her phone?  Hour and a half maybe? Two?

She reaches over and dips her hand into the folds of Fame’s purse.

“Pickpocketing again?”  Fame asks innocently.

“My phone’s in here, ya’ whore.”  Katya drawls in return.

She fishes out her phone from a delightful mess of assorted lipsticks, compacts, and crumpled up withdrawal receipts.  Katya glances down, fully expecting to see a blank screen, and have a great excuse to tell herself, _see, bitch?  You’re all worked up over nothing._

There’s eighteen missed calls from Trixie.

Eighteen.

“ _Fuck_.”

Her heart leaps up into her throat and, immediately, she stands up so fast her chair screeches across the floor.  It makes Fame jump. Violet asks _‘What?’_ seriously over the noise of the club music pumping away outside.

Katya’s already stalking towards the exit.  She makes it through the doorway, and taps the call button frantically with her finger, out in the dark hallway of the club’s back-end, right next to the smoke break door, and the ladies room.  There’s posters papering up every inch of the place, and she has to turn to the wall to hear better, just as the other line clicks.

“Fucking _finally_.”  

Trixie’s voice is gritty; audibly uncomfortable, mingled with the sound of her sucking in harsh breaths, and Katya wants to goddamn _kick_ herself.

“Oh my god, is it happening?  It’s happening, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s happening.”  Trixie whines into the receiver.  

“I fucking knew it!”  Katya stomps her foot on the floor.  It’s so hard she almost loses her balance, and she reaches one hand out to brace herself against the wall, trying her hardest to organize her thoughts and think methodically, “Okay, what’s… where are you, what’s going on?”

“I’m in a cab.”  

“ _What?_ ”

Katya was expecting her to be at home.  She knows for a fact that if you come into the hospital too soon, the doctors will turn you away.  She didn’t even set down her phone for that long—she fucking _blinked_ and suddenly shit was hitting the fan.  But isn’t that how everything has gone, up until this point?

“The contractions are happening really fast.”  Trixie whimpers. “I thought it would take longer than this.”

_God, they’re always so doomed._

“How far apart are they?”  Katya asks.

Now that Trixie’s mentioned it, Katya can hear the other cars around her, honking and blearing on what has to be the shittiest night to try and take a cab in L.A.

Friday night at eleven thirty.

“I think… fuck, the last two were eight minutes.  I’ve been trying to fucking call, my water broke in the kitchen.”  

Katya sees the door to the green room open out of the corner of her eye, and Violet peeks her curious head outside.  The entire crowd in there must’ve stalled out at her sudden exit. Katya figures she doesn’t really have to explain it.  What else would she be so uptight about?

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry.”  Katya breathes into the phone, and pinches the bridge of her nose, “I… I’m gonna meet you at the hospital, I’ll go right now.  Just, hold on one second.”

Katya presses the phone to her chest and looks up at Violet.

“Are you leaving?”  Violet asks, knowingly.

She doesn’t know what to say in the moment.  This is the night. This is what she’s been telling herself she can handle.  Despite the way her legs have begun to shake slightly, she plasters a cheesy smile on her face, and gives Violet a thumbs up.

“Gotta’ go see a woman about having my baby.”  Katya tosses out, and then she’s darting down the hallway, through the mass of people polluting the club, bumping against twinks and baby queens, towards the door like a woman with wings on her fucking Pleasers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://ko-fi.com/cherikatya


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yes I am actually alive and if you're still reading at this point, thank you! ily big time. Forewarning that this chapter is kinda' graphic and perhaps yucky, because, you know... child-bearing.

Fifty dollars smacked on top of the rolling meter seems like fair compensation, all things considered, in exchange for going into labor in the backseat of someone’s cab.  

But _, fuck_.

This was supposed to go differently.

“How close are you?”

Outside the window every office building, and all the bougie modernist digs reaching ten stories high, flit by hastily looking like honeycomb that someone's shone a flashlight through.  The driver is cutting people off when he can, and gunning it in the gaps. He’s probably just as desperate to get her to the hospital as anyone else. Best guess? Recklessness fueled by the terror of becoming a _Cab Driver Delivers Baby on Shoulder of the 405_ kinda’ headline.

Katya’s stayed on the phone for almost half an hour now.  After a little ribbing, Trixie made the decision to stop harping on the fact that twenty-odd of her calls went to voicemail.  Half of them resulted in messages that should probably end their relationship, so they’re even. And if they aren’t, it doesn’t matter.  Being angry at her girlfriend doesn’t help either of them. Not while they speed towards the hospital from opposite ends of the city like a domestic lesbian Tokyo Drift knockoff.

“Like twenty minutes.”  Katya says, “How are you feeling?”

“Bitch, how the fuck do you _think_ I’m feeling?”  

Trixie spits it into the receiver, then grimaces, and adds a rueful, “Sorry.”

Mentally, she’s been preparing herself for these tense five-to-twenty-four hours, in some ways, ever since Katya told her that Violet couldn’t front their abortion bill. _Gotta be ready for how bad it’s gonna’ get._  She knows, you’re probably supposed to focus on the part afterwards.  Bundle of joy, chubby cheeks, throw up on the shoulder of your favorite shirt.  That kind of thing. But this is where her mind has been drifting. The anticipation that Katya will have to deal with Trixie screaming, crying, lashing out, and potentially shitting the hospital bed, for one memorable evening.  Sure, Katya has her fixations with the human body, in all it’s disgusting glory, but Trixie’s not sure that she’s up for a traumatizing spectacle of this scale. It’s the kind of thing that actually has potential to mar whatever love life they have left.

Or maybe, since this _is_ Katya she’s talking about, it’ll just spice things up.

“Wanna call me that again?”  She asks, delighted, synchronized with all the places Trixie’s mind had begun to wander, “Seriously, go for it.  Take your best shot.”

Trixie can’t help but smile at that.  

“You’re such a bitch,”  She breathes, “I hate your smoker breath, I hate finding your extensions in the bathroom, I _fully_ hate your answering machine.”

“Yeah, there you go.”  Katya says as if it’s the chorus of her favorite song kicking in,  “You can keep it up if it’s helping.”

Trixie thinks about it.  

Jimmy Buffet comes on the radio, and up front, the driver starts to cycle through stations.

“It’s not really helping.”

The silence that follows her little admission is filled with static, and clipped snippets of late-night broadcasts, but it gives Trixie a moment to glance out the window and observe.  The way everyone’s bumper lights seem to glow at once, and the blue and red bouncing off the highway railings up ahead. She sits with legs splayed wide, and a hand cradling the underside of her stomach.  Cars on the street slow their roll. They crest around each-other, with opiatic hesitation.

Great.  That’s _exactly_ what she needs.  

A fender bender standing between her and the emergency room.

_Fuck you too, L.A._

“Have you been thinking about names?”  

Katya’s voice tears her attention away from the pile-up.  It’s a welcome and intelligent distraction because, much to nobody’s surprise, Trixie’s been hard pressed to think of anything _but_ names.  

As a matter-of-fact, at one point, she even tried to write them all out on paper and conduct a process of elimination game, in which she pitted pairs of names together, until two came out the clear victor.  Those still standing had to pull some kind of WWE women’s wrestling match in her brain. She’d done it to try and talk herself down from the fact that she’s known exactly what she wants to name her future theoretical daughter, as unlikely as her existence ever was, since she was roughly sixteen.

There wasn’t a close second when it came to a name.  No runner ups, no neck-and-necks.

Not even kind-of.

“You know I have.”  Trixie sighs, “You’re gonna make fun of me, though.”

“Bitch, if you say Barbie…”

“ _No_ , come on.”  She’s not that much of a bimbo, “I think…” But Trixie pauses, sentence hijacked as she feels her stomach go taut, and pressure spread through her pelvis.

It’s such a rotted sensation.  Staving off the pain, she winds one of her hands in the seatbelt, and wrings it between her sweaty fingers.  She knows Katya hears her whimper over the phone. She knows that it’s doing nothing for either of their nerves.  A fraction of guilt whittles it’s way into her brain. _How awful this must be,_ she thinks, _for Katya, to have to listen to it all go down, able to do nothing about it._

And then just like that, her body goes slack.

“... _fuck_.”  She sighs, and looks down at the swell of her stomach underneath her bubblegum pajama shirt that she hadn’t bothered to change out of. “I was thinking… that maybe we could go with Dolly.”

Oh, she _wishes_ she could see the look on Katya’s face.

The pressed lips.  The fast blinking. The way her jaw gets all tight when she’s trying not to say something shitty.  Annoyance looks good on her, but in Trixie’s eyes, every emotion looks good on her. It’s a vice and a vexation one only has when they’re deeply, disgustingly, in love.

“Is that short for something?”  Katya asks cautiously.

Trixie groans.

“Oh my god, you hate it.”

“I don’t!  I really don’t, name her fuckin’ Belinda for all I care.”  Katya immediately starts placating, “But I get to choose the middle name.”

“I’m scared.”

“You should be.”  Trixie can hear Katya’s grin over the phone, “You know I want her to be _deeply_ intertwined with her rich and pungent Russian heritage.”

“You were fucking born in Boston.”

“Ah, no, all the more reason.”  Katya clicks her tongue, and hums to herself for a moment,  “How about Svetlana?”

It’s cute.  But the pain has Trixie in a bit of a cunty mood, so she’s honest.

“We can’t give her two stripper names in a row.”  

“That’s my mom, you whore!”  Katya laughs, and Trixie can hear the ease in her voice.  “Okay, okay. Uhm. Jesus, I don’t know.”

The traffic is being re-routed.  Four lanes merging into three lanes, and everyone outside absolutely losing their minds.  Up ahead, the highway marker indicating the general direction of the hospital is visible, but Trixie feels like they’re driving forward slower than she could run.

“Yekaterinovna would be hilarious.”  Katya adds, finally.

“What’s that mean?”

“Patronymic.  It’s a Russian thing.  The middle name’s supposed to be the dad’s name.”

“She doesn’t have a dad.”

“Well shit, Mary, that makes three of us!”  Katya exclaims, and then immediately, “Am I not the next best thing?”

Trixie smiles, and closes her eyes.  Her thighs are drenched in sweat, sticking to the thin pajama fabric barely keeping her from slipping off the seat, when the car lurches.  

She tries to picture what their daughter might look like.  Not now, not tomorrow, but in a few months. When she’s growing hair, and wearing small outfits, and beginning to babble out words that her and Katya might misinterpret as her trying to use language.

She thinks about blonde curls, and fat legs, and small hands that can barely wrap around an index finger.

_Dolly Yekaterinovna Mattel-Zamolodchikova._

Trixie scrubs a hand over her own damp face.

“Let’s talk about it when we get to the hospital.”

  


~

 

When Trixie falls from the taxi and into Katya’s arms, it sparks up some kind of whirlwind around the both of them.  

If pressed, she isn’t sure she could recall the specific steps she took, from the sliding glass doors, all the way to the delivery room.  It’s a red-faced, sweaty, hectic collage of moments that probably mean nothing. For example, the first thing out of Katya’s mouth when they made it to the front desk was, “For the love of god, _someone_ get my girlfriend some drugs.”

It was a great thing to say at two in the morning, in drag, to a medical scribe.

After that, they put Trixie into a wheelchair.  The contractions at that point had long since become so strong that she honest-to-fuck couldn’t stop from screaming in the hospital elevator when one hit her.  And Katya, poor Katya, could do nothing other than uselessly hold her hand, and wait for it to pass.

Getting her from the chair to the bed was a whole ‘nother ordeal.

At first, Trixie was positive she couldn’t stand up.  Then, upon standing up, positive that she couldn’t lie down again.  

There were three things on her mind.  Painkillers, Dolly, and Katya.

In _that_ order.

As she was placing the IV, one of the nurses—one with glasses, a tight black bun, and a squeaky voice—asked Katya if she was the wife.

“Yeah.”  Katya responded, as easy if they were asking if she was a natural blonde.  

Didn’t even miss a beat.

It made Trixie blink hard and mentally circumvent the pinch in her forearm where the needle broke the skin, although Katya didn’t make eye contact with her.  She was busy unzipping her shoes and ditching her clunky earrings on a table in the corner of the room.

Trixie had been thinking a lot about knot-tying a _lot_.  Too much, actually.  Ever since they made the decision to keep the baby, it was the elephant in the room, especially with Violet’s own wedding serving as a constant reminder of what they probably, technically, should be doing.  But Katya didn’t _want_ to get married.  Trixie knew that.  She was the untamable horse, the loose cannon, and if anything, it was lucky stars that some pun-cracking bumpkin from the middle of fuckin’ _nowhere_ managed to hold her down for five years and counting.

It didn’t stop her from thinking, though.

Christmas, two months earlier, Trixie had actually been biting her nails for Katya to prove her wrong.  They’d set up this janky fake-tree on the far side of the living room, decorated with dollar-store snowflakes, and little paper angel chains that Katya had drawn tits on.   All of their presents were nestled under the tree; wrapped up in newspaper and ribbon, taunting her with their potential.

“I wanna’ open the little one next.”

Katya was trying out a new bread recipe.  The house was filled with the smell of it; so hot they had to open the windows, and get a bit of the temperate warm-winter air flooding in.

From the floor, Katya overhanded Trixie the present, and she reached up to snatch it with both of her hands.  She had a little nest on the couch, blanket draped over her, back aching underneath butterflies in her stomach.  

It was probably nothing.

But then again, the gift was _so_ small.  

It could be something.

Katya was rocking what had to be the ugliest green snowman-pattern pajama pants ever, cross-legged underneath the tree, resting chin on hands as she watched Trixie unwrap the gift feverishly; ripping through the newspaper with her nail.

“Watch it just be bees.”  Trixie said under her breath.

Katya snorted to herself.

“It’s like five angry bees.”  She ribbed; stretched out her legs, and grabbed onto her own ankles, like she was about to loll into a yoga pose.  “Finally putting the fear back into the holidays.”

Inside the newspaper, drifting in sheets down onto the floor, lay a small red box.  

Trixie felt her fragile heart double down on its beating like there really _was_ five angry bees waiting for her inside.  

It probably showed on her face.  The hope. Her hands were clammy against the faux leather, balancing the box on top of her stomach so that she wouldn’t tremble, or smile to widely and look like an idiot.  

“I made those, by the way, so that’s why they look like shit.”  Katya piped up before she had a chance to open it.

_They?_

From the floor, Katya was beaming and wiggling her feet, and her hand was already wandering to something underneath the tree.  Trixie dug her finger underneath the seam and yanked it open.

Inside, there were two earrings pressed into the velvet fabric.  

Each spelled out the word MILF, dangling vertically from a small white enamel cowboy hat.  They were clearly handmade. A few patches of hot glue obvious, maybe a weak fish hook, but wearable.

Trixie tapped one of them with the tip of her nail.

She was at a loss for words, and internally smacking her own forehead for how hyped-up she managed to get herself over nothing, so she just nodded once.

“Cool.

It wasn’t supposed to make her sound like a wet blanket, but it absolutely did.

Katya frowned.  Obviously, she expected a bigger reaction.  Hilarious handmade fuckery, bad jokes, tacky jewelry… normally, that was their _shit_ , so why didn’t her girl even crack a smile?  

Trixie looked up at her.

All at once, over the sounds of their little neighborhood, much calmer than the the pawn shops, panas, and 24-hour hole-in-the-wall burger counters of their former apartment, a silence hung in the air.  

Realization surged over Katya’s face.  Trixie was kind of shocked it hadn’t occurred to her sooner.  Maybe while she was placing them inside the box, or wrapping it, or nestling it under the tree.  Like, _really?_  Tiny gift, Christmas eve, seven months pregnant?  Come _on._ What was Trixie’s dumb little brain supposed to do with that?

“I know, you were excited about the bees, I’m sorry.”  Katya laughed nervously, “Maybe next year.”

“Better make it a hive, bitch.”  Trixie snapped just as fast, and started to unclasp one of the backings.

Bumbling through the rest of the night with avoidance dancing between them sucked ass, but Trixie would do anything to go back there and escape this.  

All of it.  

The sweat against her back sticking her to the hospital sheets.  The smell of disinfectant. The way the doctor keeps snapping the wristband of his nitrile glove; a nervous tick.

Now, Katya’s standing barefoot next to the bed.  

One of her hands is resting on Trixie’s shoulder, and her other hand is being used as a particularly unlucky stress ball.  If she bruises, Katya will do what she always does, and just make up a story that she got into a fistfight.

The room is swollen with Trixie’s own desperate breathing.  It’s set to the beat of a monitor that whirrs and beeps unendingly.  Apparently she’s not supposed to hyperventilate—she’s supposed to breathe slowly, and make low moaning noises instead of screaming.  As if she has a fucking _choice._

When Katya speaks up, it sounds very, very far away.

“I’m no expert.”  Katya runs her thumb over Trixie’s collarbone, and then pushes a clump of matted and damp hair away from her forehead, “But are you guys getting this anesthesia ball rolling soon?  She seems a little, uh... “

_Fraught?  Distressed?  Flirting with the breaking point?_

Trixie wanted Doctor Moore to deliver the baby.  She was staunch about it, actually, but no dice. Their lucky streak just won’t quit.  Pepper’s on vacation for the first time in six years. Whenever she shares a picture of her in some low-cut one-piece bathing suit on a white sand beach, cleavage to high-heaven, pineapple-rimmed margarita glass, boyfriend cradled in at her side, Trixie wants to crack her phone screen.  It’s _awesome_ .  It’s awesome that now, they’re stuck with a bunch of idiots, who keep giving Katya the subtle side-eye (which, to be fair, might be because of the sequin bodysuit), and asking Trixie if she’s _sure she’s never been pregnant before_.  Like it’s simple; something plenty of chicks forget.

“The anesthesiologist’ll be up in a bit.”  

The doctor is short.  Shorter than Katya. Maybe shorter than Trixie, too, and his accent is almost comically Brooklynite.  If he wasn’t enrobed in scrubs, he’d be aggressively hailing a cab in a peacoat and scarfing down a bially before the pigeons had a chance to nab it.  

He clears his throat, and scribbles something onto a clipboard sheet, “She should be an hour away from pushing.  Don’t wanna’ slow down the labor, ya’know?”

An hour?

Fuck _that._

The pain is incredible.  Unending and cascading, like a migraine in her stomach, blended with food poisoning, plus being electrocuted, and also, just for good measure, someone shanking her in the cervix.  It comes in waves, sure, but it doesn’t just fuck off after the contraction ends. There’s a baseline of discomfort that she’s barely managing.

Trixie shifts on the bed until she’s sitting upright, gasping at the way it feels like all her organs roll over when she does.

“ _No_ , no, I think it’s soon, I want it now.”   She sounds pathetic, even to herself. It isn’t helping her case.  For all it’s worth, her commentary falls on deaf ears, and after realizing the doctor isn’t paying her much mind, she rolls her head over to Katya, “Babe, please make em’ give it to me now.”

“I - I can’t…”  Katya shakes her head, looking equally pained, then fixes the doctor with one of those _come on_ kinds of expressions.  She holds one of her palms out impatiently, sharp red fingernails dull underneath the fluorescents.

The doctor looks up from the paperwork.  Maybe he _is_ touched by the desperation in both their voices.  Maybe he’s just not in the mood to argue with a five-foot-nine lesbian and her laboring lover.

Whatever the reason, he taps the other nurse on the shoulder.  She’s the polar opposite of the first girl; blonde, teddy bear scrubs, silver rosary lain over her collar.  Trixie’s pretty sure she’s chewing gum underneath a surgical mask (or maybe, she’s just really angry).

“Check her again.”  

Trixie had assumed that a group of strangers scrutinizing her vagina was something that would freak her out no matter the context, but right now, she couldn’t give a shit if you begged her to.   _In fact,_ she bites her own tongue from saying, _why don’t you just get the whole fucking hospital in here?  Let’s get their opinions._

The nurse crouches down between her legs where Trixie’s feet flex against the stirrups.  

She _hmmms_ , and flickers a small flashlight on, then off.

“Nine centimeters.”

Katya clamps her hand down on the bed railing.

“Oh my god, just put the needle in her already, it’s not that hard.”

It’s a blue-moon instance that Trixie sees Katya angry.  It’s not in her nature to blow fuses, but anything that gets Trixie closer to the finish line of the agony marathon, she’s cool with it.

The doctor tugs at his glove again.  It smacks and echoes through the room.  He begins to fix Katya with a barely-calm explanation, starting with, “Well, the thing is, we gotta’ move with the progression of the... “  

...but then Trixie’s screaming again.

It overtakes her suddenly.  The _pain._  The unreal, merciless pain, and this time, it’s different.  It’s _very_ different.

If there was pain before, this is pain on steroids.  Her whole body feels like someone’s grabbing her intestine and tugging, tugging, _tugging_ , trying to thread out her organs the same way a street magician would produce a chain of scarves.  She grips Katya’s hand so tightly she thinks she hears her grunt, but of course, it’s inconsequential.  

Trixie grits her teeth.  It’s taking a weak stab at choking down the shriek building in her chest, and it doesn’t work.  An awful guttural noise claws out of her mouth anyways, until she’s almost worried she’ll snap a vocal chord.  

This _can’t_ happen now.  It just can’t.  No matter what, she’s not going to jump the gun, even if her body wants her to.  

She _has_ to wait for the epidural.

_“Motherfucker_.”  She barely manages to spit, with her eyes squeezed shut, “No, no, _no,_ I have to push, I have to.”

“You’re okay, it’s okay.”  She hears Katya’s voice, trembling.  A hand soothes over her shoulder.

At last, still with the routine exasperation of someone at their dayjob, the doctor seems to take her for something than an over-dramatic jezebel who doesn’t know nothin’ about all this fancy science stuff.  

_About fucking time._  

He knits his eyebrows and kneels down at the end of the bed.

The room is a matchbox.  If she had claustrophobia, she’d be going nuts with the way everyone’s packed up around her in and amongst the wires.  Trixie can see, just over her pooled-up water lines, the glow of a flashlight under the hospital sheet, and she hears that god-awful glove snap again, and kind-of wants to kick him in the face.

She’d be cracking _so_ many jokes if she could think straight.  It’s truly an untapped oil well. The abyss?  Archaeological dig? Crime scene investigation, honey?  Endless, endless crappy one-liners that she’ll probably annoy Katya with after this is all said and done.

“If you have to push, just start out gently.”  The blonde nurse says from the left of her, “Try and rest when the contraction’s over.”

She honestly did mean to protest.  

After all, can’t you just refuse to cooperate?  Instigate a Mexican standoff in exchange for some pain meds?  But sadly, it doesn’t make a difference to anyone else. There’s no resolve when it comes to this kind of agony.  It would be like trying to nab a runaway train with a lasso.

Trixie squeezes her eyes tighter still, and tenses everything inside her.

Sweat pours down her back in sheets— _Christ, she’s worse than Katya_ —but she tries to muscle past the overwhelming feeling.  The feeling of full-body strain, and time, weighing down on her.  Sixty seconds, maybe, somehow stretched out endlessly. They span what feels like to an epoch, all her nerves in free fall.

When it dissipates, she barely remembers where she is.  

_Right.  Hospital._

Air swarms her lungs.  She’s still holding Katya’s hand, the poor thing.

“ _God._ What about the _fucking_ epidural?”  She whines out, and lets go of the bed briefly to wipe tears and sweat from underneath her eyes.

The doctor looks up at her from the foot of the bed, and shakes his head.

“If you’re already pushing, it’s too late for any a’ that.  We can’t administer it if you can’t sit still.” He tosses out without apology,  “Usually things would be going a lot slower than this, that’s why we figured you’d had a kid before.”

Trixie’s mouth hangs open, but nothing comes out.

“Are you kidding me?”  Katya’s cuts in, bedside.  She squeezes Trixie’s hand right back, and even barefoot and bedazzled, puts on her best fear-striking face, “She’s been saying that the whole fucking time, it’s going fast, did you think she was being funny?”

The doctor pulls back the rim of his glove...

“Listen, ma’am - ”

… and snaps it.

“ _No,_ _ma’am_..”  Katya spits back at him.  It jolts the room silent. Even both of the nurses, from where they’re poised on the left side of the bed tampering with a sensor delicately stuck to the skin of Trixie’s stomach, go still.  “I’m not fucking around. You better put some morphine into that drip in the next motherfucking _minute_ , you jackass, or I swear to _god_ , I’m framing you for malpractice.  Not cute malpractice either. Necro-shit.  Stuff you didn’t even _know_ people were into.”

Listening to the whole exchange as an observer is surreal.

It’d be kinda’ hot, too, if it weren’t for the fact that Trixie’s fully preoccupied.

Whatever the doctor responds with is swallowed by the pounding in her ears.  It must be positive, though. She notices that one of the nurses begins slowly pressing something from needle to plastic bag that she hopes to _God_ is the best smack the whole hotel could burn in the head of a spoon.

Another contraction hits as hard as the last.  

Trixie breathes in shaky from her nose.  She leans into Katya, and groans low as she tries her hardest to push with it.  

One time she read about different ways the brain responds to pain; how some people say that they leave their body.  If there’s no way to make it stop, the mind finds a way. She remembers this because there’s a moment, between the blinding white-hot sensations rippling through her, where she feels nothing at all.  Like floating. It doesn't stick around longer than a few seconds. Then, a familiar copper taste graces her tongue, and she realizes that she must’ve bitten into her lip.

“That’s good, that’s really good.”  The blonde nurse’s voice, muffled by the fact that she’s _definitely_ chewing gum, “Big push on the next one, okay Trixie?”

She wants to collapse, but she exhales, and nods.

A drop of blood runs down her chin.  It drips onto the white fabric of the hospital gown.

“Hey, momma.”  For a moment Trixie thinks that someone is trying to get her attention.  Now _that_ would be futile.  But the noise actually comes from a nurse, the one with glasses, tapping Katya on the shoulder, “Want to catch the head?”

When Trixie glances up, Katya’s expression is wavering between shocked and worried.

“Do I wanna _what_ the _what_?”

She sounds absolutely bewildered.

“The head!  Come on, you can see it.”  The nurse seems way too enthusiastic about that fact, and she beckons Katya to the end of the table.

Trixie doesn’t even notice her absence at first.  She’s too busy wrestling with the next wave of pain.  This is the part where people throw up, pass out, all that nasty shit, so she sucks in her best big-girl breath and digs her heels into the stirrups as deep as they’ll go.  Despite it all, she pushes again.

Through her lashes, sticky with tears, she can see Katya rounding the bed frame.   The nurse points to… _ugh_ , to God knows what, at this point.  Katya’s eyes go dinnerplate-wide.

There’s not a lot of shit that grosses her out any more.  After all, this is _Katya_ she’s talking about.  Blood-drinking, lung-hacking, joint-popping, good old diesel-dykey Katya.  Still, maybe this is the hard limit. Maybe this is that repugnance that you don’t recover from.

Something happens then.  A strange expression graces Katya’s face, from where she’s gawking, and she blinks.  Once. Twice. _So_ slowly.  

Next to an increasingly confused nurse, she stumbles back, even though she’s barefoot, and doesn’t have a stiletto to battle with.  It takes a good long moment for Trixie to understand what’s happening. To understand what it means; the way Katya’s eyes start to roll up into the back of her head, and then before anyone can even yell timber, she’s crumpling to the floor like a fucking rag doll.

Trixie can even hear the solid thump of her body, hitting the ground, before she’s screaming again.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://ko-fi.com/cherikatya


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow this is definitely like 100 years late. Life is being extremely life-y, and also, writing drama is my specialty so this fluffy cute shit really threw me for a loop. If this is sub-par I apologize, but I figured it's better you guys just read it than for me to obsess over it in google docs forever. I do hope y'all enjoy! Peace! ♥

_This_ is the worst hangover she’s ever had.

Formerly that trophy had been snatched somewhere mid-February two-thousand-twelve, the morning after a Violet-instigated rampage that involved three strip clubs, a bath house, one basement-turned-rave, and a house party that was still going strong at four in the morning.  Katya remembers waking up miraculously in her own apartment, sprawled over a stained teal couch, bare-chested, and head pounding like her brain was one second away from bustin’ on out through the occipital.

And this?  This is arguably one-hundred percent as rotted, if not more so.  

She wakes up to a throbbing that indicates she either got her lights punched out, went down the rocky road of ‘taking shots’, or a sick combo.  It _was_ her retirement party, _Mary_.  How tame did she expect it to be?  The last thing she remembers, she was chumming it up in the green room with Violet and her painted whore. They joined in for Katya’s pre-show routine which, as recalled by her senses, was enveloped in plumes if sweat and smoke.  After that, she must’ve been dragged out by her ass and plied with tequila (it’s always tequila), shoved into a cab, probably embarrassed herself in front of Trixie with a decent stumble-in, and then ended up…

Oh.  

Yeah.  

Where the fuck _is_ she?

Once she muscles through the sensation of the headache, she realizes that nothing around her is familiar.  The smell; its fruitless, aseptic, kind of like hand sanitizer. Underneath her, instead of the oh-so-magical five hundred thread count sheets that Trixie made them buy for the holidays, there’s scratchy bed linens over a rock-hard mattress that’s already made her back start to ache.

When she opens her eyes, she sees nothing but white.  Pure white, as her pupils constrict and focus in on the drop ceiling.  The slats. The way the wall seam has a bleeding brown stain (something from the floor above, that’ll probably cause an implosion if it’s left for too much longer).

It’s a combination of clean and unsettling that can only come from a hospital.  And yeah, she was having fun last night, but not _wound-up-in-the-ER_ kind of fun.  Even taking into account the fact that she has the tendency to act like one stupid motherfucker, right around the hour of always-o-clock, she’s a grown woman, thank you very much.  A partner, a friend, a _lover_.  She wouldn’t go three sheets to the wind knowing that Trixie was at home, just about ready to burst at a moment’s notice.

She blinks again.  

_Ready to burst, huh?_

And again.  

_Fourteen missed calls._

The next moment feels, to her, like what getting an adrenaline shot to the chest cavity probably feels like.  Mama, if you could _hear_ an eye snap open.  If you could watch her blackened lungs fill their bubblegum bronchioles with air.  If she could see her own stricken face twist into a gawk.

_Trixie was having the baby._

Katya remembers it all at once.  Sitting in the backseat of a car biting her own nails off and telling Trixie to _breathe,_ and getting socked with the good old _‘I know how to breathe, fuck off’_ .  And then after, pulling a red-faced pajama-clad angry little Trixie out of the Taxi; throwing a baseball-sized clump of twenties in the direction of the driver before rushing off.  Watching them stick all kinds of pins and needles into her in the delivery room, as Katya tried to ignore the way the sequins of her leotard had started to rub her underarms raw. And _Christ_ , the horror show - the wailing, the crying, the bleeding; the screaming match Katya got into with the staff that didn’t do anyone any amount of good.  

_The baby._

_Why doesn’t she remember seeing the baby?_

Immediately Katya tries to sit up.  

It doesn’t work.  There’s a dead weight on her.  

Something warm is pressed against her side, and in her scramble, she pulls herself away so fast that her shoulder bumps roughly into a familiar bundle of platinum tresses on the pillow next to her.  The half of her body that’s exposed to the hospital room is cold. The other side is near-viscid with sweat. It’s usually like that whenever Trixie sleeps close to her. Now that they live in a house, free from the bindings of coin-operated community laundry, they’ve finally seized the opportunity to wash their sheets just about three times a week, so it’s usually less of a problem than it is right now.

Katya peels her body away from her girlfriend.  She can feel how tangled and greasy her own hair has become overnight, but to be honest, Trixie’s not in a much better position.  Her hair is pulled back into a loose knot-filled bun. All her makeup has long since been washed off. She’s in scrubs.

Katya’s movement is enough to wake her.

Slowly, Trixie scrunches up her eyes and lifts her head off the pillow.  She peeks up at Katya with heavy lids.

Further down the path of wear and tear, her bottom lip is cleaved by a purple-red split; the place where she had bit herself.  Without the makeup, Katya can see the flush of her cheeks, and the freckles stippled over her round face. She reaches up and shoves a lock of hair out of her own eyes, and then, fixes Katya with a dopey smile.

“Hey.”  

Katya’s still in panic mode.  To be honest, it feels like someone woke her up with a bucket of cold water and a rusty cattle prod, but Trixie seems… fine.  Ready to fall back to sleep at the drop of a hat, no doubt, but fine.

“Are you okay?”  Is the first thing Katya asks.

She reaches out, just to grab Trixie’s arm and feel her skin.  Trixie opens the other eye, and looks up at her for a solid moment, before rolling both of them back up into her head and nestling her face deeper into the pillow.

“Yeah, no thanks to you, sleeping beauty.”  

It doesn’t really have a bite to it.  If anything, Trixie smiles at the end, and crawls her fingers forward to rest on Katya’s waist, picking at the fabric.

“Fuck…”  Katya shakes her head,  “I really ate shit, didn’t I?”

Trixie nods against the pillow.

“You should see your forehead.  It looks like you’re growing a tumor.”

Katya reaches up to place her fingers against her own skull, only to wince.  There’s a bump that feels the size of a small tangerine. She can only imagine the way it’s going to bruise.

“ _Ugh._ Whatever, I’ve been tryna’ get bangs again anyways.”  She says passively.

Trixie snorts, and Katya feels her little fingers tighten on her waist.

“Please let me cut them.  I can’t go through your DIY fantasy one more time, I’ll just leave you.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, you went to beauty school…” Katya teases absently, as she takes a moment to glance around the room.

It’s fairly small, but not the room they were in before.  There’s the cot, a chair across the way, and a window peering out onto the smoggy-mid-day sky.  It’s just her and Trix, nobody else, which keeps gnawing at her.

_Maybe something happened._

The little voice in the back of her head sends pinpricks of anxiety down the front of her sternum.  She turns back to Trixie. It’s hard to make her mouth spit out the words, but try she does.

“Where’s the…” Katya begins, “... where’s the baby?”

Trixie keeps her eyes closed.  

The wheel of a stretcher mulling along out in the hallway warbles along the marble floor at an unbearable pitch.  It gets closer, till Katya’s gritting her teeth, even more than her usual baseline of stress-induced molar gnashing.

“Oh.”  Trixie begins, and her face falls serious,  “We lost the baby. She got choked out by the umbilical cord, it was _such_ a bummer.  But on the upside, we can probably sell the crib on craigslist for, like, two hundred dollars.”

Trixie only breaks on the last line.  The corner of her mouth twitches subtly.  

Katya knows she should be used to Trixie’s stupid fucking quips by now.  But, Christ, this isn’t such a _usual_ situation for them.  

Katya shoves her arm as Trixie’s mouth spreads into a full grin.

“You’re a fucking monster.”  Katya whispers.

Trixie smiles, and rolls over completely onto her back so that she can rub her eyes.  A band-aid is still in place over the crook of her arm where the IV was previously placed.

“I needed to sleep.”  Trixie explains plainly, “I think she’s in one of those… you know.  The boxes they put babies in.”

Katya frowns.

“I thought those were only on TV.”

“Totally real.”

“Huh.”

“You should go say hey.”  Trixie reasons, as she runs her hand over the side of Katya’s body, “And let me go back to sleep.”

It sounds casual.  As if Katya can just sidle up to the bassinet, and strike up a conversation about the weather, intricacies of the Cold War, or women’s wrestling.  It’s tempting to ask Trixie if she can stay in the safety of the room. Maybe play with her hair some more, or kiss her mascara-free eyes, tell her that she looks beautiful even when she looks worse than she has since the morning after she won third place on amateur night at the Cinderella gentlemen’s club during a blackout.

Something stops her, though.  It’s pride. It’s perseverance.  It’s the fact that Katya hasn’t let nerves keep her from doing anything since she dropped out of her gymnastics team via chugging cough syrup the night before the statewide championships.  

Which she regrets.  

So, yeah.  

Go say hey.   _Great idea._

“Okay, but don’t get too comfy,” Katya begins to brush the covers off herself, “I don’t wanna stay in this shithole longer than I have to.”

“That’s fair.”  

Katya slowly steps out of the bed.  Upon being vertical her head swims again; a small dizzy spell making her stick her arms out like an aeroplane, and shuffle her feet.  Putting her heels back on seems like a chore, and she spots Trixie’s slippers discarded next to a chair. _What the hell?_ Those match her bodysuit just as much as any other fuckin’ thing.

She toes them on, and pads across the slippery tiles.

Just as she’s about to step into the hallway, she hears Trixie’s voice again.

“Katrushka.”

Katya looks over her shoulder.

“ _Da?_ ”

She gives Trixie a smile for the hell of it.  The sun streaming in makes Trixie’s hair glow so bright the yellow bounces off the wall.  Same effect as when you have fresh sunflowers kept close to windows, and the beams hit them just right, and they make all the white paint and grey countertops humm with life.  Trixie buys those kind of flowers when they have spare cash, and keeps them on the kitchen sink till they rot. After they’re dead and growing mold on the stems, Katya cuts off the heads, and presses them inside books, pretending that she’ll remember to use them in a project one day.

It’s hard to imagine that just a few hours prior Trixie was in such unceremonious agony.  

Right now, she looks like she just woke up from a nap on a Sunday.

“I really love you.”  Trixie says, all buttery and listless.

Katya was half expecting Trixie to remind her to support Dolly’s head when she gets to the infirmary. It’s a welcome phrase, because _God help_ this rusty Russian whore, it’s coming from the only person that would ever take the time to try and truly love her.  

And what a time it’s been.

“ _Ty moya vozlyublennaya, vsegda._ ”  Katya says, tossing her hair theatrically, and blowing a small kiss.  

Trixie doesn’t ask what it means, and Katya doesn’t offer to tell her before leaving the room.  


 

~

  
  


While making her way through the rat-maze hallways of the hospital, Katya’s been getting some looks.  Mostly from nurses and doctors. The patients themselves are way beyond giving two shits about some chick rocking party on the top, slippers on the bottom, and makeup that really should’ve been removed about ten hours ago.

She doesn’t _feel_ like a mother.  That’s what keeps running through her head, as she follows the overhead signs to the nursery, dodging a woman in the same situation Trixie was last night - half bent over, hand on her swollen stomach, panting.  She doesn’t think that anyone will take her seriously as one, and _fuck_ , what if even all the dull parenting guides in the world still aren’t enough to pull her out of the mud?  

Her kid could end up hating her.  Trixie could end up hating her.

Just past an old man sitting in a wheelchair staring at a vending machine asking, _Jane?  Jane?_ over and over, she sees the large glass window spanning most of the hallway.

_Deep breaths_ , she reminds herself.  

Then, in Trixie’s voice, _Shut up, I fucking know how to breathe._

When she peers through the glass, it’s row after row of small plastic bassinets.  They look so utilitarian, considering what they’re used for. Like jail pods. At least half of them are filled, with a nurse standing over next to the NICU units, reserved for the really unlucky munchkins.  

So it’ll be a kind of a scavenger hunt. _You’ve heard of where’s waldo, but are you ready for, where’s my daughter?_

Katya opens the door slowly.  The nurse lifts her head, and after getting past the initial shock of Katya’s outfit, smiles.

“Hola amore!”  She turns to face Katya, and her upper cheek glints with highlight.  Bright and flashy teeth peek out from underneath full lips, “Here to see someone special?”  

She winks after she says it.

It’s warmer in the room than outside.  There’s a few noises bouncing around over the constant mechanical humm; human whines, and restless gurgling.  

“Yeah.”  Katya realizes she’s clutching herself, and drops her arms.  “Are they alphabetical or Dewey decimal?”

The nurse giggles in response.

“Just tell me know your last name and I’ll point you in the right direction.”  She offers.

She’s carrying an underdeveloped baby against her chest.  One of it’s pruny arms is visible underneath the pink blanket.  Must be one hell of a job to keep all the things content, but she seems like she’s in paradise.  

“It’s either under Mattel or Zamolodchikova.”  

At that, the nurse's eyes widen a little.

“Oh!   _That_ name.  You guys really picked a unique one, huh?  I like that.” She exclaims, and begins carefully setting down the child in her arms.  It whines as it’s placed back in the unit, but quickly goes silent once again. “Right over here, girl.”

She begins to maker her way towards a cot in the far left corner.  It’s stationed over near a high-hanging window, filtering in hazy light that comes down like a pillar just above the nurse’s head.  Katya’s heart jumps up into her throat.

_Okay.  This is… this is okay._

She moves her plush-encased feet along the tile; makes her way down the aisle of bassinets filled with newborns (which she’s pretty sure is a sight that’s been featured in one of her night terrors.  At least one).

The nurse reaches her arms down.  At a few feets distance, she can read the name tag hanging on the edge of the crib; reading a long winded _Dolly Yekaterinovna Zamolodchikova-Mattel._

“Jesus, I didn’t think she’d actually do it.”  

“What’s that?”  The nurse turns her head up.

“Nothing.”  Katya says.

The nurse lifts a bundle out of the cot, and beams as she holds her arms out and offers it to Katya.  

A beckoning, or a gift.

Katya's arms reach out without her intending them to.  

There’s a disconnect between what her eyes are seeing, what her mind is thinking, and what her body is doing, but she can feel the blanket against her fingertips.  The weight of the baby settling into her arms is specific. It’s really her, she’s really holding her, and trying to avoid the judgement of the elegant nurse still side-eying her, she forces herself to look down and...

And.

_Oh._

A face.  

A runty, ugly, wrinkly-pink face, sleep-smiling back.  Dolly’s eyes are closed, but somehow upon Katya’s arrival, she twitches and prys her eyelids - tinier than Katya’s pinky finger - open.   _Blue eyes.  Bright blue._ She already has a few strings of hay-blond hair tangled together on the top of her head.

At first, Katya doesn’t feel much of anything.  The terror stops, the buzzing in her head stops.  The nervous tick she’s had since eighth grade where she likes to grind her teeth till they squeak?  That stops too.

She just looks down and thinks, maybe this is what being calm feels like.

“You’re…”  Katya’s fake nails rest upon the top of Dolly’s head, gentle against the almost-bald scalp “...you have blue eyes.  Oh, girl, don’t take after me.”

She says it quietly.  The little blanket-swaddled body is warm to the touch.  In her arms, Dolly doesn’t start crying; just looks up, opens her mouth like a koi, then shuts it again.

“Hey.”

The nurse has lost interest in her little ‘moment’, and returned to bottle-feeding the preemies and cooing at them in Spanish.  Katya appreciates the privacy, and rubs her thumb back and forth over Dolly’s soft cheek, flush and blotchy.

So this is the thing that’s been sitting up inside Trixie making their life a living hell.  

Katya knows it’s unfair that even after they passed the point of no return, Trixie never really had any indication whether or not Katya suspected she could be happy with their circumstances.  Katya never had an indication either. Who the hell could fucking toss that coin, and say if some street rat in extensions could learn to love a child?

Katya should’ve told Trixie sooner.  That of course she would love it, because sometimes she looks at Trixie and thinks love is the only thing she’s ever gonna’ fucking feel, for the rest of her life.  And if Dolly is a byproduct of that stupid, careening, reckless feeling, then, so be it.

“Listen, I know we didn’t really… want you.  At all. And we definitely tried to get you killed, and I’m not about to apologize for that.”  Katya whispers, quiet enough where miss Ave Maria won’t hear and clutch her pearls too hard, “But your mom and I are gonna’ try really hard not to fuck up your life.   _Ya obeshchayu._ ”

  
  


~

 

They all take a Taxi home.  Katya keeps a hold on their baby as Trixie snores against her shoulder.  Outside the window, the setting sun makes heat waves on the clay tile roofs, and Katya’s eyes follow them as the wither upwards into the faded sky.  She thinks about all the other times they rode home from the hospital, clutching sonogram photos, or holding back tears, or checking their bank accounts.  In her arms, Dolly barely moves. Katya couldn’t fidget even if she wanted to, which to her unending surprise, she doesn’t.

There’s no way to be sure how many people tried to knock on the shop door while they were gone.  And if they did? Fuck em’. Katya locks it closed behind herself and keeps the closed sign flipped outwards.  

The stairs whine underneath the three of them.  Her and Trixie are quiet around each-other now, so she can hear every groan of wood, continuing into their eerie living room.  Through the archway leading into their kitchen, underneath the beams of sun, a cake sits, right on the edge of the counter.

“Was that for me?”

Katya realizes how little of a grasp she has on the series of events that unfolded here.  The ways Trixie managed to keep calm, while Katya was uselessly languishing in the back room of a bar.  Or worse, while she was lip locking with Violet for the hell of it.

“No shit it was for you.”

For a quick second, it seems like Trixie’s ready to walk to their bedroom and collapse onto the mattress.  It would make a lot of sense. She’s been through hell and back, and Katya’s probably capable of putting Dolly to bed without killing her.  But Trixie stops before she reaches the hallway. Her hand stays braced against the side jamb of the doorway, thumb rubbing up against the rusty copper strike plate.  

She sluggishly turns around, and crosses the room to where Katya is still standing with Dolly’s head against her chest.  Trixie’s hands come up, and — gently sandwiching Dolly in between them, God bless her heart —she hugs Katya with those soft warm arms.  It feels good; her hair, against the underside of Katya’s jaw.  Good to smell her, too. Honey, vanilla, rosemary - _her woman._  Always her woman.

“I’m happy.”  Trixie says.

“I’m happy too.”

Katya shocks herself with how little she has to think about it.

Trixie ends the embrace, and gently coaxes Dolly out of Katya’s pale arms.  The sight makes Katya realize that she really is old enough to be a mother, if she’s judging it solely by the blue-purple topography of her bony hands.  

“Bring the crib into the bedroom.”  Trixie instructs. Katya watches her shuffle away, through the open door to the bedroom, unfurling herself down against their mattress and splaying Dolly over her own stomach.

“What if she starts crying?”

“Then I’ll put her face on my boob.  I want her in here.”

Katya knows the don’t-fuck-with-me-on-this tone all too well, and obediently makes her way into their sorry excuse for a nursery.  Slowly, trying not to disturb her girlfriend or their new expensive pet, she begins to drag the crib by the soft pads of the legs, over the smooth hardwood, around the bend of the hallway, and into her and Trixie’s bedroom.

Trixie grins as she enters.

“Nice arms, mama.”

Katya huffs.

“Are you _insulting_ me?”

Katya sidles the crip up next to her and Trixies bed, wood touching comforter.

“I think I’m hitting on you.”  

Katya toes off her hell-boots.  She leaves them crumpled on the floor and crawls over the mattress, settling in next to Trixie.

“Want me to put her in the box?”  Katya asks.

Timidly, she lets one of her fingers creep forward and brush over the tiny shell of Dolly’s ear.

Trixie closes her eyes against the golden-hour light breaking through their curtains.

“No.”  She breathes, voice drenched in something that sounds a lot like warm sugar should,

“I think I’d just like us to lay here for a while.”


End file.
